Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 4/4

	Scully ran up the creaky steps of the old wooden house and 
knocked on the door decisively, trying to contain her excitement. 
She still could not believe that the man she met at Manns Harbor 
called, surprising her in the middle of the autopsies. At the precise 
moment when she was trying to dream up a way to hide the bodies.

	The same halting voice she heard on the phone asked who was at 
the door.

	"Agent Scully - we have spoken?'

	It took him several minutes to unbolt the locks, and Scully 
marveled at their sheer quantity. 

	"Good evening," the man shuffled, ushering her in awkwardly. 
"Please come in."

	"Thank you," she stepped inside, sweeping the surroundings 
quickly. The darkness dwelled in the corners, the only other tenant 
in the old Albany,  New York house. It seeped into the room from 
behind the old, valuable paintings on the walls, from behind the 
dark antique furniture. "I am sorry, I still don't know your name."

	"Hans Treznor. Do sit down."

	"You are German?" Scully settled down in the armchair. "You 
have no accent at all."

	Treznor cringed with displeasure. "I have lived in this country 
for more than forty years. If I still had an accent, it would be 
surprising."

	"I am sorry. But I presume you called me for a reason. What did 
you want to talk to me about?"

	The old man's expression changed from contempt to fear as if by 
magic. "That place where we met in North Carolina. What do you know 
about it?"

	Scully shrugged. "I was hoping you could tell me about it, 
actually. Two strange bodies were found there, but that's all I can 
tell you."

	"I am sure you can tell me much more than that, Agent Scully," 
Treznor's eyes were still fearful, but the intelligence behind them was 
undeniable. "I did some checking-up on you, and I know that you are a 
forensic pathologist. I am sure you would have wanted to be the one to 
do the autopsies. And I would like to know what you have found."

	Scully stared at him, indignation boiling inside her. "You - 
checked up on me? What gave you the right?"

	"The only right I have these days, Agent Scully. The right to 
die with dignity - and the right to clear my conscience before I go."

	"You don't look that frail to me," she cursed herself mentally 
for being short with him. "I was hoping you could give me some 
information. But since you seem unwilling, I will go."

	"Bluffs don't work with me, Agent Scully," Treznor's cold 
voice stopped her as she was rising out of the chair. "This 
conversation will be mutually beneficial, I assure you. Now, tell 
me about the bodies."

	She slid back down slowly, squeezing the handles of the 
armchair tightly. "Most of the anomalies I have found were in the 
brain..." she began uncertainly, enthusiasm and scientific curiosity 
winning her over step by step. Treznor listened attentively, nodding 
from time to time, the best audience to the strange forensic 
discoveries she had had in the longest time. "There were trace 
amounts of a substance in the pustules, and in the bloodstream of 
the bodies. And I only know that it was manufactured, but no one 
can tell me what it is," Scully finished.

	"Draw me a scheme," Treznor pointed her to paper and pen on 
the table.

	She scribbled a quick picture, and gave it to him. "You know 
what this is, don't you?"

	"Yes," Hans contemplated it for a while. "Yes, I do," he drew 
another picture below it with unsteady fingers. "And this is the one 
they are looking for, I am sure."

	Scully rummaged through her bag, pulling out a formula that 
Mulder found in his father's book. "Bingo," she whispered softly, 
smiling and trembling at the same time.

	"You know how gene splicing works, don't you?" Treznor asked, 
not looking for an answer. "When two differing DNAs are being combined, 
they must be treated with the same enzyme that has the ability to split 
them in such a way that they will graft together. If it works, the 
result is a completely new DNA string, a new range of possibilities, 
a new species. This formula is the enzyme that could, in fact, combine 
the human and gray DNA."

	"Gray?"

	He smiled, regarding her with something akin to pity. "Alien."

	"But these bodies... they wouldn't have survived!" Scully 
remembered the destruction she had found inside them and shuddered. 
"This is impossible."

	"What is impossible, Agent Scully? The trick is, of course, 
to come up with a formula that will successfully splice both DNA 
strings and combine them so that the risk to health will be minimal 
and the benefits procured immeasurable. Imagine: a body that still 
resembles human, but possesses new abilities. Levitation. Telekinesis. 
Control over thought. Control over time, even."

	Her head was spinning. "Regardless... are you telling me that 
this other formula you just drew for me, that this is the one?"

	"Yes. Why are you so surprised? You seem to have known it as 
well."

	"I am not surprised," Scully amended. "It is the place where 
we found it."

	"We?" Treznor seemed edgier now, the old fear coming back.

	"Me and my ex-partner," she suddenly felt regret that Mulder 
wasn't here. That she wasn't recording this conversation so that he 
could listen to it. "How do you know so much?"

	Hans' face fell, and an old man with nothing to live for soon 
replaced an eager scientist. "I was one of the few unfortunates who 
conducted these experiments many years ago. Sometimes, I think that 
the human subjects we used as lab rats were the unlucky ones - now I 
think that we were the true victims. William Mulder was in charge of 
the project when I came to work in Virginia laboratory," he stopped 
curiously, seeing Scully's hand going to her throat. "Something to 
drink, perhaps?"

	"No, no. I am fine," she shook her head, trying to dispel 
the sudden dizziness. "Please, continue."

	"He was a determined man, relentless in the pursuit of his 
goal. He drove us all to the brink of nervous breakdowns, but we did 
find a way to combine the two with minimum damage to the subjects. 
The subject we experimented upon had lived for three months and he 
was looking quite well... I was ecstatic, you understand. Finally, 
we had a solution to the problem."

	"What happened then?"

	"What happened was fire, and the person who just happened to 
have started it was William Mulder. Everything burned to the ground: 
the samples, the documents, the subjects, and the knowledge. Everyone 
died - except for me, and only because I was lucky enough to have 
stepped out for a cigarette at the moment. Sometimes, the deadly 
habits prove to be beneficial."

	Scully frowned. "Are you sure it was him who started the 
fire?"

	Treznor cringed. "He is the only one besides me who lived. 
Simply by method of exclusion."

	She tried to collect her thoughts. This barrage of information 
was refreshing and surprising, she was so used to getting some 
scraps...

	"I heard what happened to him after. He resigned, his daughter 
disappeared. They were suspicious - they thought it was him as well," 
Treznor concluded. "It wasn't a Sherlock Holmes type of mystery."

	"How hard was this formula to come by?" Scully wondered aloud. 
"They couldn't find it since then?"

	"We only invented it by sheer luck," Hans bared his teeth. 
"No method to our madness, so to speak."

	"You must have been a great scientist," Scully offered, 
suddenly sorry for the man who obviously spent most of his life in 
hiding, in fear. 

	"But I have used my talent for the wrong things," he looked 
away for a moment. "At times I used to think: if I surrender this 
formula to them, if I share what I know, at least one part of their 
project will have been fulfilled. Some experimentation will stop, 
lives will be spared..."

	"But you couldn't be sure that more people will not die as 
a result of this discovery," she finished softly.

	"That and I was afraid for my own life. Something I truly 
needn't have concerned myself with." Treznor gazed at her 
thoughtfully. "I can guess why you know so much, Agent Scully. 
Your ex-partner's name is Fox Mulder, and I have seen enough to 
know that there are no coincidences. Old man must have kept some 
information about the project. I can do very little. But you have 
the knowledge and the means to do something. Not even they can hide 
from hurricanes."

	Scully processed the information. "Thank you," she said 
finally, gratefully. "You have helped me immensely."

	Hans nodded, pale eyes focusing on hers for a moment. 
"You seem to take this business rather personally, Agent Scully. 
Why?"

	His words unsettled her. "I am tired of being a victim," 
she straightened in the chair.

	Hans inhaled sharply and stared at her for a while. "You 
have survived. You should be happy for that."

	The sun was setting behind the trees, and the darkness of 
the house mixed with the dusk outside. The steel returned back 
into her voice.

	"I am."

	* * *

	Milton poured the wine in the glasses ceremoniously and 
handed one to Mulder. "How is work?"

	"Which one?" Mulder replied in tone. "I seem to be 
fulfilling so many functions these days."

	"This is your account in a Swiss bank," Milton handed him 
a piece of paper. "Access it on-line, change your password, start 
managing your assets."

	Snakeskin was more pleasant to the touch than this paper 
with the strings of numbers. "How much?"

	"Enough," Milton tasted the dark liquid, then swirled it 
in the light. "Enough for you to understand what the definition 
of your job is."
	 
	Mulder smiled pleasantly. "I do not recall discussing the 
terms of payment."
	
	"You seemed more concerned with other matters at the time. 
Your interview skills must be rusty."

	"Well, I only had one interview, so I could be forgiven. 
That is great news," he cheered, holding up his glass. "I can 
start shopping at Bloomingdales now. And you simply must give me 
the phone of your manicurist."

	"Jokes aside, Fox," Milton replied softly. "I didn't come 
all this way here for a pleasure of your company, much as I always 
enjoy it. I am concerned... yes, I am greatly concerned with 
something we had happen at one of our laboratories in Manns Harbor, 
North Carolina."

	Mulder raised his eyebrows. "What happened?"

	"It was in the direct path of the hurricane, and they had 
no warning. And a bunch of idiots that they are, they had thrown 
some equipment in the truck, hauled up some subjects that were 
transportable, but left a couple that weren't. I suspect that they 
just forgot them, like one forgets spoiled vegetables at the 
bottom of the refrigerator. We should produce a new set of rules 
for our facilities. Something like: burn it to the ground if you 
know it will be found!"

	"And it rhymes, too!" Mulder was now genuinely having a 
good time, congratulating himself inwardly on sending Scully to 
Manns Harbor before the Consortium began the official "sanitation".

	Milton shot him a mischievous glance. He definitely liked 
this young man... finally, someone of an equal if not greater 
intellect to talk to, someone who could appreciate his twisted 
sense of humor. "Due to the nature of this disaster, we were late 
in addressing the potential problems. The ruins of the facility 
are just that: ruins, and there should be no problem with them. 
The two forgotten bodies have been found and shipped to Quantico. 
They are the only remaining piece of evidence that must be 
destroyed, but..." he enunciated each word. "They. Can't. Seem. 
To. Be. Found!"

	Mulder remembered Scully's note and tried not to choke 
on the wine. "Perhaps, that's a good thing?" 

	Milton cocked his head to the side. "Fox. When something 
is lost, we are usually the ones responsible."

	 "Ah. I seem to forget. So what do you want me to do? 
Find them?"

	"No. Make sure that if they are, in fact, found by 
someone other than ourselves... that nothing happens to endanger 
this Swiss bank account."

	"I will do my best," he nodded. "Can't go around losing 
thousands of dollars."

	Milton smirked. "More like hundreds of thousands. It pays 
to have education these days, don't you think?"

	His smile momentarily lost, Mulder concentrated on the wine. 
"The money that paid for this education came from the same source. 
Isn't that right?"

	Milton didn't reply, starting to rummage through his 
pockets. "Ah, here it is," he pushed another paper across the table. 
"Another part of our deal."

	Mulder read the address in Vermont, swallowed apprehensively. 
"What is it?"

	"That's where Samantha O'Connor lives now, with her family. 
Isn't that what you wanted?"

	Did he want it? He doubted it now, after so many years of 
searching, after so many scars on his soul. He knew what happened 
to her, and she didn't want to be disturbed... But the numbers 
and letters were a magnet, a key to the addiction so powerful it 
was not even recognized as one anymore. This way lay madness, and 
he was already contemplating the straightjacket. "I... I will think 
about it," his answer seemed to calm him somewhat. He could make 
his decision later. "Maybe..."

	Milton watched him carefully. "Maybe. One other thing, Fox."

	Distractedly, Mulder raised his eyes. "What is it?"

	"I know that Agent Scully took a plane to a North Carolina 
location just recently. And I hope that it was for another case," 
his voice dripped with poison. "How is she doing these days?"

	"I don't know," Mulder answered lightly. "We don't seem to 
talk much anymore."

	"A good answer," the conspirator took another sip, rolled 
it around his mouth. "Now here is a good question: why is it that 
the only person that seems to love you... and I mean love in 
the platonic sense, of course... why is it that she is not 
questioning your whereabouts? Why is she so unconcerned about 
your promotion? And why is she not brokenhearted over the fact 
that you don't 'talk much?'"

	The worry was creeping back softly but surely. "Agent 
Scully is her own person regardless of whatever feelings you 
think she has for me."

	"She was your partner, Fox. I would be worried about her 
if I were you. And you just seem to ignore the issue."

	"What I am trying to tell you is," Mulder steeled his 
voice, squished his fear. "There is no issue."

	Milton poured more wine, then directed his eyes to the 
glass. "I always have wondered. She is the only person to get 
rid of the cancer. How? And don't tell me this crap about the 
chip. What's a chip? Only a summons device, nothing more."

	There was a faint noise in his ears and he wondered 
bleakly if there was maybe something in the wine. Something that 
made him feel as if he were going to lose consciousness. Maybe 
Excedrin didn't mix well with alcohol. "She had undergone 
extensive chemotherapy." Why was he explaining this? Why did he 
feel as if the ground was about to slip from under his feet?

	"What's chemotherapy to such a pronounced disease? It 
would take a miracle to clean up this much poison out of her 
system. No, I do still wonder... it would be interesting to 
find out... and the repeat visit can always be arranged..."

	"Are you threatening me?" He could swear that he smelled 
the burnt skin in the air, and black and red circles danced in 
front of his eyes. The hunting season was over, and his mind kept 
going insistently over every one of the hypnosis sessions he 
performed, over each page of the folder he'd found and 
accidentally read. Miller was good, but he didn't know how 
to hit where it hurt the most.

	Not Scully. Not again.

	"Merely a warning, Fox," Milton got up and collected 
some files lying on the table. "Merely a warning."

* * * 

	The little diner was still the same, and Scully swore to 
herself that when it was all over, she would never come back again. 
The place gave her the creeps. Moreover, meeting Mulder like this 
was too dangerous; it was an aberration, and they both knew it.

	He sat at the table in the far corner of the diner, and 
she realized with a start that at a certain point in time he 
began to choose the shadowy places. Like Cancerman, she thought, 
and was immediately ashamed of the comparison.

	It was a good thing that he didn't smoke.

	"Mulder, you know that we can't keep meeting like this; 
we are lucky we haven't been caught yet," Scully began and 
halted uncertainly. "You look like hell."

	"Gee, thanks," his lips didn't even curve into a smile. 
The silence stretched, and Scully reached out her hand to touch 
his sleeve. He shivered slightly and moved away. "Scully, do you 
have any Excedrin in your bag, by any chance? Or something to 
that effect?" his voice sounded hollow, distracted, as if he 
could not quite concentrate on the conversation at hand.

	She was ready to pounce on him with questions and concerns, 
a doctor instinct kicking in immediately, but managed to refrain 
somehow and focused on finding the pills. "Here, Tylenol," she 
handed him the bottle and watched as he shook out three. "Mulder, 
that is more than you should be taking at one time."

	He shot her an impatient glance. Oh, for heaven's sake, 
it's not like these were heavy drugs. "Tylenol? Give me a break."

	"Mulder... what are we doing here?" she asked him finally, 
as all of her excitement over her discoveries drained away. "You 
wanted to talk in private..."

	"Scully, I don't want to know where you hid the bodies. 
But I ask you to forget their location, as well," Mulder looked 
at her harshly. "Whatever you have found - do not put it into 
the report."

	She looked around, half-convinced that he saw a familiar 
face and that's why he was behaving this strangely. "But... 
Mulder, the things I've seen..."

	"Scully, this case never happened. It belongs to a 
non-existent department. Dean Douglas needs you to help in 
some on-going cases," Mulder paused, suddenly terrified of the 
words falling from his mouth. He didn't believe in them - but 
he needed Scully to believe in them, and he played the role 
that was almost like second skin with the unsuspected artistry.

	"Mulder, you have to hear what I have found," 
Scully suddenly felt as if she fell into the twilight zone. 
The only familiar thing about this man was a glass of ice tea 
in his hands - still full. "I met with someone who worked with 
your father - who worked for him, in fact - and he told me what 
the Consortium are working on..."

	He kept his expression carefully neutral. "I don't want 
to know, Scully."

	Why was he being so dense? What happened in the short time 
while she was gone? "Mulder! Will you please listen to me? Did you 
bring my file here? I need to read it - there is a lot of work to 
be done - we need a plan..."

	"Does the word 'no' mean anything to you?" Mulder began 
to get exasperated. "I did not bring your file, there is nothing 
we need to do, and I can hardly understand what plan you are 
talking about."

	Scully struggled, trying to understand what was happening 
here. She hoped that they were past it, past whatever was 
bothering him, past not talking about their problems, past the 
uncomfortable silences. And now it seemed as though they took 
five steps back for one step forward. Trying from another angle, 
she questioned: "Did they find something out? Are you afraid of 
something - is that why you are ignoring me?"

	A shadow passed over his face, and for a moment she felt 
certain that she hit the right note, that her guesses were correct. 
And yet his voice didn't waver, his eyes did not soften when he 
said the next words.
	
	"No. I have to go, Scully."

	Damn it, she was not leaving it like this. "Mulder, 
whatever you are trying to do, I do not believe in it. You are 
behaving like one of them," she used what she knew would hurt, 
and without remorse. Maybe it would crack through him. "And I 
know that you are still with me. Aren't you?"

	Mulder looked at her smile, the eyes full of trust, and 
love, and faith, and closed his eyes under the sudden onslaught 
of heartache. Once and for all, he had to try and convince her 
to step away or the consequences would be deadly. "Scully, do 
you ever wonder why you can't remember anything from the time 
you were abducted?"

	The smile wavered, a castle in the sand under the attack 
of heavy ocean waves. "I... I don't think about it..."

	"Do you ever ask yourself how three months," Mulder 
complimented himself for not breaking down right then and there, 
"could just disappear from your memory?"

	"You know," Scully answered after a pause. "You know that 
it bothers me, but it's easier not to dwell on it..." she coughed, 
trying to hide her discomfort. "Why?"

	"It's an interesting trick, and since I have learned it, 
I thought I would share. You listen to the person and get their 
trust, find out what it is that bothers them, what it is they 
want to forget. Then you tell them to lock it deep in the 
recesses of their subconscious, so that it never, ever 
resurfaces again. Maybe only in their dreams that are forgotten 
in several minutes."

	She didn't want to understand him. Her mind refused 
to make a connection that she knew was actually easy. "Mulder, 
no..."

	"Yes," and now he meant it, now he didn't want her to 
interrupt. "That's what I have been doing for the last few months: 
perfecting the art of erasing memories. Something curious that I 
have found out, it doesn't matter whether three months or three 
days should be forgotten, the effort it takes is really the same."

	Scully didn't know what was happening, she only knew that 
she wanted him to stop. But her mouth was dry, and she only raised 
her hand weakly in protest - then let it fall back to the table.

	"The man who erased your memory, Anthony Miller, said that 
you didn't have that many memories to begin with. I was curious 
to find out why he mentioned that, and after I read your file a 
little more in depth, I understood that most of the time you were 
kept on depressants. After Valium caused a respiratory depression, 
it was switched to Librium. As you know, it is still a minor 
tranquilizer, and apparently at some point, it wasn't strong 
enough. Did you know that you're allergic to Thorazine? Well, 
regardless, they didn't, and you slipped into a coma as a result 
of an injection. Fortunately for them, it happened at the end of 
their experimentation, after they didn't need you any longer. So 
they simply took you off their hands, after any trace amounts of 
Thorazine disappeared from your system."

	Mulder glanced at Scully who didn't protest any longer, simply 
absorbing the information. "Doctor Miller is a gifted teacher, and he 
taught me how to erase memories. I must have worked with... oh, sixty 
women so far? I've lost count. I obviously screwed up with Sheila 
Freeman, but she was the first. I became much better since then, 
I assure you."

	"Where?"

	For some reason, the question struck him as funny, but the 
smile he managed was unhealthy, tired. "You don't think I would 
disclose the location, do you?"

	She wanted to cry, then, but the tears wouldn't come. They 
must have dried along with every positive emotion inside her heart. 
She couldn't speak, either, because it seemed an enormously 
difficult task that would drain all of her remaining energy. 

	This is killing me, Scully realized suddenly, and she moved 
uncertainly, grabbing her bag and coat. "You will have your report 
tomorrow," she managed to whisper as she stood up, using the nearby 
wall for support.

	Mulder wanted to ask if she was all right to drive, offer 
her a ride home. Such a normal thing to do. And yet, he was quite 
convinced that she would faint had he uttered just one more word, 
so he remained silent, watching her depart. The door slammed 
behind her, and mission accomplished, he calmly reached for 
the iced tea.

	The Tylenol bottle was still at the table, and he took 
out two more pills, wishing that Codeine was available without 
a prescription.

* * *

	Mulder leaned against the smooth glass of the window in 
Miller's office and tried to tune out the doctor's voice, to get lost 
in a vacuum where nothing existed or spoke or moved. He felt suspended 
in limbo, having no means to backtrack and no courage to move forward. 
Not for the first time, he thought of how stupid his plan was, and how 
it was doomed to failure.

	My choices brought me to this point of ultimate resistance, he 
mused tiredly. God, it sounded like a line from a bad musical.

	"So I was hoping that you'd switch with me for Thursday and 
Friday... Fox?" Miller's voice drifted back inside his comfortable 
cocoon of nothingness, and Mulder started, putting his arms across 
the chest defensively.

	"Sorry, I didn't hear what you said."

	"I was just saying that I have two old friends coming over 
to visit next week - and I was hoping that we could rearrange our 
schedules. I need to take a couple of days off," Miller shrugged.

	Mulder was tempted to laugh. Sometimes, he forgot that he 
was dealing with real people who had families and friends, and lives 
outside of their work - outside of this building. A conversation from 
a long time ago came to him: "Mulder, I'm simply dying under this 
workload, would you help out with this guy's profile?"  Anything 
short of a resounding "no" always meant yes, and Mulder was always 
unable to reply in the nanoseconds of time before gruesomely detailed 
files and photographs were shoved into his arms.  A rapidly receding 
figure would offer a thumbs up, "You're the man!" 

	Miller looked at Mulder expectantly, his hands pushing a pile 
of folders his way.  They looked innocent enough, invitingly enticing, 
as if it was everyday someone asked if you cared to work with a few 
extra patients and wipe out their memories.

	Mulder shrugged his shoulders before muttering, "I don't 
mind."

	You're the man.

	Miller studied Mulder's detached face, detecting a strange 
note of indifference in his voice. "Fox, are you all right?"

	His eyes were already back on the world outside. "Why wouldn't 
I be?"

	Miller paused, reflecting, choosing his words carefully. "You 
don't seem... yourself."

	He shoots, he scores, Mulder commented inwardly. That's it: 
I've lost myself and I can't find me.  Him.  Whoever it was he/I used 
to be.  Hello?  Bureau of Lost and Found?  Fox Mulder here -- seems 
the lights are on but nobody's home; the elevator ain't quite going 
to the top anymore.  

	Rubbing a hand over his face, Mulder inhaled deeply, trying 
to collect his rapidly scattering thoughts. "I'm fine, Miller," dryly. 
"It's late, we ought to be leaving."

	A heavy hand lay on his shoulder, and he suppressed a shudder. 
A gentle voice spoke placatingly in his ears. "Why hurry? Sit down."

	Why hurry indeed? There was nothing waiting at home, no 
pressing business to attend to, no messages or e-mails to answer, 
certainly not from... Scully. He winced at the mere name, forgetting 
that he wasn't alone. All the time in the world, now - but not a 
single moment allowed to dwell on the past, certainly not a minute 
to heal his wounds.

	"Why didn't you quit then?"

	Miller started, incredulous. "When?"

	"After your son died," Mulder explained, suddenly not caring 
that this conversation was taking on dangerous overtones, strangely 
certain that it was safe to speak with Miller on the subject.

	Miller shook his head, contemplating the question. "By asking 
me that, you assume that I had a choice. I assure you that I never did 
and never will."

	"I see," Mulder said bleakly.

	Miller shook his head.  "I'm not sure that you do, Fox.  One 
can't quit from the Consortium.  With the things that we have seen, 
that we have done -- do you think that we can just let one go?"

	Mulder looked at the doctor questioningly, treading more into 
dangerous ground.  "Did you want to be let go after your son died?"

	The silence dragged on; the doctor was unable to reply 
momentarily.  Miller cleared his throat before speaking slowly.  
Cautiously.  "I served a greater purpose by staying.  I brought some 
value to it."  His last sentence sounded as if it had been rehearsed 
many times.  "I worked towards seeing people like my son not have to 
suffer." 

	Mulder nodded.  "Did you... have you ever thought of 
turning..." he stopped himself before he could ask.  But the doctor's 
eyes had flashed, and Mulder was certain that Miller knew what he had 
been about to ask.  He nodded imperceptibly, smiling slightly.  
"Nothing... never mind.  Not important."

	Miller glanced over at Mulder, steepling his hands.  He studied
the younger man across from him, almost certain that he recognized the 
signs of depression in his weary posture and unemotional expression.  
Miller, hearing a silent alarm trip in his head, was keenly aware that 
the greatest threat to the Consortium was the conscience -- the 
melancholy, the depression, the despair -- that could single-handedly 
floor a man.  No stranger to dark moods -- having witnessed the 
agonizingly slow deterioration of his son -- he was too familiar with 
the way brain worked, how loneliness made one contemplate... certain 
thoughts.  Dangerous thoughts.  "You look very tired," he spoke 
softly.  "Maybe you should take a few days off."

	Oh God, there was actually concern in Miller's eyes. Mulder 
blinked, wishing for it to depart, to be left alone. "I am the 
Assistant Director of the FBI or did you forget? And exactly what 
would I do with my days off?"

	Miller was exasperated. "You must have dozens of vacation days 
available at the Bureau. I don't know, you should... have fun, get 
laid, maybe travel... to Vermont, perhaps? Visit your family?"

	Mulder's eyes flickered with unexpected humor. "Is this a 
suggestion of a Consortium member - or of a psychologist?"

	Miller shrugged, returning a smile. "A friend, in this case."

	Mulder chuckled ruefully, wondering if this was how the spies 
usually felt, if the inherent instinct for survival always turned 
black into white; enemies into friends.  "Sometimes you surprise me, 
Miller. Bad advice, though - first of all, I prefer work to leisure, 
and second... I would rather go to Bosnia than to Vermont."

	"Why are you so afraid to take a chance, Fox?" Miller 
questioned him softly. "Maybe she will not want to reconcile - but 
maybe, just maybe..." he left the thought finish itself.  "Think of 
what you're giving up."

	"She doesn't even want to know I exist," coldly, Mulder 
continued. "According to her world, I'm only a figment of her 
imagination from the time before."

	Miller nodded. "But don't you wonder what would be if you 
showed up on her doorstep? What would happen if you called? I have no 
one, Fox," for a moment, he sounded old and lost. "You shouldn't allow 
that to happen to yourself. You remember her number, don't you?"

	At the affirmative nod, Miller got up and started walking to 
the exit. "Dial it now. I will take a walk outside."

	The door clicked behind him. Mulder stared at the phone, the 
cream-colored plastic object that held hope and despair in its 
accurate little buttons. And without any thought other than a "what 
if" beating an incessant mesmerizing motif in his ears, he began 
dialing the number.

	A whisper of line noise and the contented humming of measured 
beeps and a warm alto on the other end of the line. "Hello?"

	A breath of hot, bitter air through the dry, parched lips. 
"Samantha?"

	Silence, then the careful, incredulous: "Fox?"

	Oh, but the familiarity - the sheer closeness of it could 
simply shatter him. All these years... all these years changed so 
little. "Yes."  He felt oppressive silence threatening, and he grasped 
for anything mundane to say.  "I'm sorry to disturb you."

	She seemed to think a moment. "No... it's all right. But this 
is not a good time."

	Mulder closed his eyes, absorbing the blow, knowing that it 
was expected. "Can I call later?"

	"Fox, I..." he was sure that she would say no, but she 
surprised him. "I will call you soon, I promise. But I have to go - my 
son is ill, he's in the hospital."

	Mulder cursed his unfortunate timing. "Oh God... is it 
serious?"

	"I... don't... know..." there was a touch of despair in her 
voice. "No one knows what's wrong with him or how serious it is. I 
have to go, Fox."

	Each word was like a dash of cold water against his face. 
"Wait, Sam," a deep breath to steady his voice. "What are the 
symptoms?"

	"Tommy... he has a constant fever, a temperature of 103 and it 
won't go down.  It's been two weeks and he's delirious. He can't say 
what hurts, and no one can figure out what's causing it. The EEG shows 
some strange brainwaves." Her hurried voice shook and she suddenly 
aborted the recitation. "I have no time for this now. Goodbye."

	Before Mulder could reply, there was a click, and he stared 
into space, feeling the heavy weight of the receiver in his hands. 
Hope or despair. White or black. Win or lose. He didn't notice when 
Miller came in and took it from him gently. "What happened, Fox?"

	"Her son is very ill. His name is Tommy," Mulder replied, 
wondering why on Earth he said that, guessing that Miller probably 
knew the name. 

	His nephew was called Tommy, he was four years old, and he had 
a strange disease.

	Miller didn't speak for a long while, then reached out 
awkwardly across the table to touch Mulder's hand. "All the more 
reason to take this vacation now, don't you think?"

	"Yes, maybe a day or two," Mulder echoed softly. He turned 
around slowly to face Miller, his eyes darkening in suspicion.  "This 
illness wouldn't be a result of his parents' genetic heritage, would 
it?"

	Miller pursed his lips, hearing an unspoken accusation in the 
question, and deciding to turn the conversation to a safer topic. "Did 
she want to see you?"

	Mulder laughed softly. "I'm ready to bet a lot of money that 
she didn't."  He shrugged helplessly.  "But I have to try.  Ten, 
twenty years later, I don't want to be consumed by wondering, what 
if."  Mulder studied the floor as the words absently passed through 
his lips, "I've done too much of that already."

	The old doctor didn't reply, perhaps lost in a world of what 
ifs and could have beens of his own.

* * *

	The mindless actions of fictional characters.

	A warped world from the box in front of her that seemed more 
real than the surreal events that surrounded her.

	When the gunshot came, Scully jumped from the seat of her 
couch -- her pounding heart threatening to obliterate any sound coming 
from the TV.

	With a harsh motion of her thumb, the rectangular prism was 
turned off, and Scully threw the remote to the opposite side of the 
couch in disgust.  Pulling a stubborn lock of hair away from her face, 
she wondered how it came to be that she could relate more to the 
fiction that was presented on TV, than the true-life happenings in 
the world around her.

	She took a deep breath, chastising herself for getting riled 
up over a stupid wannabe cop show.  

	Three cops had shot a surrendering drug lord down like a dog, 
and hid their illegal activities behind official paperwork and false 
looks.  The resulting war left four innocent co-workers wounded, and 
the fall-out left two cops quitting in disgrace.

	And one committing suicide.

	Scully sat in her silent apartment trying to forget what she 
saw, trying to not draw parallels to her own life -- trying not to 
place herself, or Mulder, or Winters into any of those... those... 
*actors* she had seen on TV.

	She stood up suddenly, needing something to do, wanting an 
escape from her rapidly spiraling thoughts.  Walking around her 
cramped apartment eventually brought her to her answering machine, 
and she jabbed at the play button -- her fidgety fingers moving in 
desperation.

	"Dana, it's me.  Just called to say 'hi', and that it'd be 
nice to have you over for the weekend.  Call me whenever you get home, 
okay?  Mom."

	"Hey, Day.  This is Leslie.  The girls and me are getting 
together on Thursday, want to come?  Call me -- remember the phone 
number: 555-2476.  Bye."

	The answering machine went on to drone about charities and 
Venetian blinds and agent something-or-other issuing his condolences. 
The machine clicked and moaned, the tape starting then stopping for an 
annoyingly long period of time.

	She leaned stiffly against her kitchen counter, crossing her 
arms tightly against her chest.  She imagined that if someone were to 
offer her a mirror, the reflection greeting her would be biting her 
lips so hard as to draw blood.  

	And yet, the machine kept clicking -- and in the silence, it 
sounded like a gun reloading, firing empty casings.  It had become an 
obsession, everything around her smelled, sounded, or looked like 
death.  Scared for Skinner, for Mulder, for herself -- the smell of 
ground beef frying would soon be obliterated by the stench of corpse, 
ripe from decomposition, while a glass falling would become a crack 
of the rifle.  The apartment was like a tomb -- the walls were content 
to echo every sound, while the maddening periods of silence were 
suffocating.  

	God, Leslie hadn't called in... a long time.  To go to a 
nightclub and look at slabs of male meat... Scully shuddered at the 
prospect.  Normalcy now made her nauseous -- she would always look 
for the hidden camera, for the ulterior motive.  Her paranoia would 
run rampant, and her fingers would always hover by her hip, ready to 
reach for the weapon in her holster.

	And there lay the quandary.  For as much as she yearned for a 
normal life, for as much as she pushed such terms as "friends" and 
"dates" into Mulder's face, the cloak-and-dagger routine was the only 
life she was now able to live.

	At least, the only life she could live while keeping any shred 
of sanity. 

	She sighed, needing something for her hands to do, needing to 
release the nervous energy in her body.

	Eat.

	Eating seemed like a sensible thing to do.  During her cancer, 
keeping food down was almost a privilege.  And now, in the midst of 
Mulder's Byzantine plan, any desire to eat had been effectively 
squelched.  She looked through the cupboards, glancing over the cans 
of soup, the vegetables in the crisper of the fridge, the frozen 
casseroles in the freezer.  The freezer door remained open, foil and 
Tupperware threatening to fall out.

	 Her eyes passed over the food quickly.  Blindly.  Nothing to 
eat, her mind chanted.

	The frigid air was blasting into her face, and Scully welcomed 
the accompanying shivers, closing her eyes, thinking of nothing but 
the cool relief on her flushed face.

	A violent shiver caused her eyes to reluctantly open, and in 
disgust, Scully grabbed blindly for a package.  The plastic container 
scraped across the ice, sounding like nails against chalkboard.  
Scully swore as she grabbed for a plate, the chink of glass amplified 
in her ears.  The microwave door was slammed shut, and she felt her 
fingers protest as she cruelly jabbed at the buttons on the panel.

	The X-Files were shut down.  She no longer had a partner.  The 
relationship with the man who shared her heart was in jeopardy.

	And Scully felt adrift.  Lost.  She felt as if she were 
swimming in a kitchen that stretched into the horizon, in the same 
apartment that seemed cramped minutes ago.  

	There was no longer any purpose.  All sense of direction had 
been lost.

	Endless dead bodies floated by her gaze in her job in VCS -- 
and she offered cold, analytic opinions.  The nightmares, the unbidden 
night terrors were quick to follow, and she often woke up, heart 
pounding, the intense images of seeing Mulder's lifeless body on a 
steel gurney rapidly disappearing.  

	The beep startled her, and Scully's stomach dropped when the 
smell of leftover chicken assailed her nostrils.

	She left it in the microwave, suddenly wanting a shower. 
Needing a shower.  An image of Andrew came unbidden into her mind, and 
Mulder's voice -- that ridiculous, clinical, detached psych voice he 
had, was asking her again:  "Are you doing this because you feel you 
need to pay for Andrew's death?" It was the same voice he used when 
describing... She shuddered, remembering the long-ago conversation on 
the newsgroup, and the cryptic "getting some value out of my 
doctorate."

	Stepping into the washroom, she stalled any thoughts about 
Mulder. The topic could bring her to her knees, make the emptiness 
inside so much worse.

	She concentrated on the little things. She made sure that the 
shampoo and conditioner bottles were full enough. She set out a new 
bar of soap, disposing the shriveled remains of the last one.  She 
double-checked to make sure she had towels -- deciding that the peach 
one would be for her hair, the white one for her body.

	She stripped quickly, suddenly feeling self-conscious, never 
letting her eyes meet those of her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

	She stepped into the tub gingerly, feeling water that was 
much too cold cause goosebumps. A counter clockwise turn of the left 
knob brought blessedly warmer water, and Scully let it pound onto her 
face, colors whirling behind closed lids.  

	As soon as the water was tolerable she jacked the knob more 
to the left so that it would turn degrees hotter.  Her skin was soon 
rid of goosebumps, now turning a deep pink.  Sweat was mingling with 
water, and steam was billowing over the shower curtain.

	But it would be tears that would burn Scully's face.

	* * * 

	The tiny girl opened the door to his shy knock, and Mulder 
stared at her for a minute before she finally extended him a hand. 

	"Hi. Are you here for my daddy?"

	He stepped inside, closing the door hastily against the cold 
wind. "No... I'm here to see your mom. Is she around?"

	She nodded affirmatively, light-brown ringlets of hair flying 
in all directions. "Yes, she's with Tommy. He's sick."

	Mulder squatted before her. "I'm Fox. What's your name?"

	"Meg," her brown eyes studied him with curiosity.

	"How come you're the one opening the door? Where's your dad?"

	"He's away on business," it seemed as if she wanted to add 
something, but was interrupted.

	"Honey, who are you talking to?"

	Mulder looked up to see Samantha on the stairs. He was 
suddenly afraid - once again - of rejection and anger. But her 
expression was one of resignation more than anything else. "Meg, 
why don't you come sit with your brother - read him a book."

	The girl nodded, concern written all over the little face, 
and ran up the stairs.

	"Fox, what are you doing here?"

	He measured her with a glance, a trained eye noting the dark 
circles under the ever-changing eyes and a figure thinner than he 
remembered. "Sam, I..." he was lost for words. "It's good to see you. 
I never knew that I had such a beautiful niece."

	She smiled briefly. "Fox, I was going to call you. I do feel 
bad about our last meeting. My father was... he didn't say it 
outright, but I could see that he was upset with me for leaving so 
soon."

	Mulder processed that particular image of Cancerman with 
raised eyebrows, then decided it best to avoid the topic of dead 
fathers. "How are you doing, Sam? How's Tommy?"

	"He has fever, as usual," she lowered her eyes, concentrating 
on the piece of cloth that covered the table. "Meg helps me take care 
of him."

	Mulder opened his mouth to offer false platitudes, but the 
words became stuck in his throat.  He shook his head in frustration, 
knowing the question had to come off his chest.  "Sam, don't you ever 
wonder... about your past?" he prodded gently.

	"No," Sam answered sincerely. "I don't."

	"Why?"

	"Because I have my present."  She set her shoulders, staring 
at Mulder resolutely.  "And I have my future."

	He glanced around the dilapidated house permeated with the 
smell of vomit and sickness. The present was certainly not a happy 
one. And the future looked worse.

	"How did you find me?" she asked.

	"I work for FBI," he smiled. The FBI database had failed him 
when it came to finding Samantha O'Connor's new location, but, Mulder 
mused, why bother complicating matters?  He waved his hand 
dismissively. "It's not important."

	Sam regarded him suspiciously. "You know, that's what my 
father used to say when he didn't want to tell me the truth... that it 
wasn't important."

	Mulder met her gaze levelly. "Really."

	She sighed. "Whatever."

	"Can I meet my nephew?"

	She looked towards the top of the landing warily, sighing. 
"Go ahead."

	Mulder went upstairs, measuring each step. The door was open, 
and he stood at the threshold for a few moments, observing the scene 
in front of him. A boy with dark hair, his eyes closed, shivered under 
several blankets. Meg sat next to him, his small hand enclosed in 
hers, reading a book.

	She looked up at him and at this moment, he knew that his 
heart was lost - again - to these children whom he'd never met before. 
All things considered, he just didn't think that it was possible 
anymore. "Uncle Fox," she smiled and Mulder shuddered, realizing 
belatedly that she still didn't know who he was or why he was there - 
that all little children called all strange adults 'uncle' or 'aunt.' 
"I was just reading Tommy about 'James and the Giant Peach.'"

	He was confused momentarily. "You aren't reading aloud."

	Meg sighed in exasperation and explained, obviously not for 
the first time. "He knows what I'm thinking." She was back to reading 
the book - aloud now - and Mulder presumed that it was for his 
benefit. A page turned by itself - and he watched it, transfixed.

	"Meg, do you know what Tommy is thinking, too?"

	She didn't look at him, smoothing her brother's hair tenderly, 
away from the sweaty forehead. "Yeah."

	"What is he thinking now?"

	She waited for a moment before responding. "He thinks that he 
likes your voice, and..." her face wrinkled, than adopted a panicked 
expression as she cleared her body away from the bed, "that he wants 
to throw up again. Mommy!"

	Samantha came running in the room and produced a pail as if on 
cue. Mulder watched numbly as the boy threw up, opening his green eyes 
for a briefest second. 

	"These are... remarkable children," he uttered finally. He 
sobered, remembering who was waiting for his report on West 46th, New 
York.  The Consortium would have a field day investigating their 
abilities -- wouldn't think twice about using needles and drugs and 
implants.  Mulder stared at the ceiling for a minute, exhaling slowly, 
praying that these two children would be able to slip through the 
Consortium's claws.

	Sam sat down and cradled her head in her arms tiredly. "I 
can't take it anymore, Fox. You know... everything seemed to be so 
much easier when my father was alive. His will said that we had to 
move because we were in danger - from whom or why, I don't know. He 
also wrote that if we were ever in trouble, that we should call... 
you."

	Mulder listened, questioning his own sanity as well as 
Cancerman's. What did the man have in mind, anyway? That he would 
just go to the Consortium and demand a cure for the boy? He laughed 
briefly, startling his sister. "I didn't know he had such a high 
opinion of me."

	Samantha looked surprised. "From the few times that he spoke 
of you, he did so with the utmost respect. As opposed to you, might 
I add," there was a steely note in her voice.

	Mulder tried to repress the nasty reply, but wasn't able to 
do so. "He never gave me the reason."
	
	She stood up, hands crossed over her chest. "Then you didn't 
know him. I loved my father."

	"Well, I loved my father too," he snarled back. "And your 
father had him killed! Besides, Davidson wasn't even your father. 
A simple blood test would prove it."

	Tommy whimpered softly, and she ushered him outside roughly. 
"You're such a self-centered jerk... Did you come here to fight? "

	He forced his breathing to calm down, tried to act rationally. 
"No, Sam. No. God," he sat down, threw up his hands in the air. "I 
just wanted to see you. And I was worried about my nephew."

	"So was my father right, Fox? Can you do something for us?"

	Mulder stood up, realizing that this meeting was becoming a 
disaster of cosmic proportions. It was too late to speak of blood 
groups. It was too late for them to reconcile. The brother and sister 
they used to be no longer existed, though he could still see their 
reflection in Tommy and Meg. Mulder felt a brief flare of anger -- 
the same blood-boiling, cheek-flushing emotion that came with the 
thought of being used -- of knowing Samantha had finally relented, 
only because she needed something for her son. "Maybe," he replied 
non-committally, turning around to leave.

	"Fox, wait! Will I see you again?"

	He hesitated, then nodded. "Of course, Sam." On the way down, 
he caught Meg in his arms, threw her up in the air. "Goodbye, doll. 
Say hello to Tommy for me."

	She giggled happily. "Bye, Uncle Fox!"

	Mulder walked out, glancing briefly at the house. 

	So much for the vacation in Vermont.

* * *

	The Bureau parkade was silent.  It was long past five o'clock, 
and all sensible employees with their sensible cars had left to go 
home to their equally sensible families.  

	Scully sighed, checking her watch once again, feeling the 
sedan behind her support all her weight.  After her fifth call to the 
office earlier in the afternoon, Kim had patiently spelled out that 
Mulder had been expected at a ten thirty meeting, but had suffered 
through numerous delays at the airport.  The federal agent had been 
tempted to let the matter drop -- but something inside of her kept 
pushing to wait.  

	One more try, it had persistently whispered.

	One more last ditch effort to salvage what was left to be 
salvaged from the relationship she and Mulder used to have.  And if 
not... Scully looked towards the unmoving parkade door, her heart 
starting to sink.  If the effort went for naught -- then perhaps 
Mulder was right: teaching at Quantico, getting away from D.C., would 
be the next logical action.  

	Soft at first, but slowly increasing in volume, the steady 
beat of footsteps could be heard echoing off of Hoover's cement 
parkade walls.  Scully pushed herself upright, watching Mulder's 
figure come into plain view.  He stopped, clearly shocked upon seeing 
her, then set his shoulders, his mouth pressed into a grim line.  

	"Hi," he started warily, at first relieved - then alarmed - 
that she was still willing to talk to him after that memorable 
rendezvous in the diner.

	"Hi yourself."

	The silence fell shortly after, and Mulder refused to meet 
her eyes.  

	"Skinner's trial is in just a few days," she reminded him 
softly.

	Mulder nodded.

	"He..." Scully stopped at the sound of a car passing nearby. 
She watched his eyes narrow, his jaw clench -- the tell-tale signs 
of a paranoid Mulder she had learned many years ago.  He became 
absorbed in watching the dark sedan's progress, and she shook her 
head.  "Look, Mulder," his head turned towards her, but his body 
remained facing the direction in which the car exited.  "I'd be 
stupid to think that things will be fine a week from now.  I don't 
know what you're doing anymore, and it seems we," she paused, leaning 
onto what Krycek had once said to them, "it seems in destroying the 
destroyer's ability to destroy, we've only destroyed ourselves."

	Mulder remained silent, wanting to yell.  So close, Scully. 
We're so close. Just a bit longer.

	"I don't know how long this charade can last, Mulder."  
	
	Soon, Scully, he silently implored.  He stared at his feet 
as they shuffled awkwardly, realizing too late that she was now 
looking at him exasperatedly.  "You haven't heard anything that 
I've said."

	"I've had a lot on my mind," he snapped.

	Her eyes flashed dangerously.  "And that's my fault?"

	The pair fell silent again, and Scully eventually shook her 
head.  "Never in my wildest dreams, Mulder, have I imagined things 
would come to this."

	"You mean that we, ourselves, would be responsible for our 
own undoing?"

	Another car engine started, startling the two.  Hesitantly, 
Scully grabbed onto one of his arms, inwardly alarmed at how thin his 
bicep had become.  "Tell me, Mulder.  What's next?"

	He passed a glance in her direction, distracted by the 
movements of the other dark sedan.  "What do you mean?"

	"I mean are you going to remain the AD?  Are you going to 
keep the X-Files closed?"

	Mulder shook his head, trying to see behind the glare of the 
car window.  "I don't know... I haven't thought about it."

	Scully smiled sadly; there would be no recrimination in her 
voice.  "You never do."

	Mulder emitted an angry sound from his throat, finally turning 
towards her.  "Is that why you're here?  To tell me what I should do? 
To fight with me?"

	Scully took a deep breath, startled at the change of intensity 
in his tone.  The conversation was not going in the desirable 
direction, and in the one second she had met Mulder's eyes, they 
flashed an accusation.  "No," she held up a hand beseechingly.  "No, 
I'm not Mulder, but..."

	The rest of the words were lost on him as he watched the same 
dark sedan drive slowly behind a row of parked cars.  Catching a clear 
picture, in the brief second of time that the passenger wasn't 
obscured by the glare of the parkade lights, Mulder swore he could see 
Miller's face staring back at him.

	Scully stopped in mid-sentence, calling Mulder's name several 
times before he glanced in her direction.  "You didn't hear a thing I 
said.  Again."

	Mulder shook his head, trying to remain casual, trying to 
parlay a message to Scully through his eyes. "Agent Scully, I really 
need to get to the office and do some paper work."

	Scully crossed her arms against her chest, watching Mulder's 
eyes plead with hers.  Her nails dug into her palms harshly, and she 
was aware of the familiar tickle at the corner of her eyes which 
dictated she was about to cry.  But she was so... sick... of... the... 
charade.  Of the paranoia.  Noises were buzzing in her ears, the 
white light from the fluorescent lamps above was making her nauseous. 
She turned away blindly, hearing her own words sink to the bottom of 
her stomach -- feeling their bitter taste for the first time.

	"Goodbye, Mulder."

	She was deaf to any response, the contact of high heel shoes 
hitting concrete enough to cause her teeth to collide against each 
other.  Her numbed fingers eventually unlocked the car door, the sedan 
leaving the Assistant Director -- and the J. Edgar Hoover building -- 
in a cloud of exhaust. 

* * *

	His fingers were sprawled across the rough bark of an oak 
tree - its sharp skin piercing numbed, chapped hands. Mulder's 
breaths were ragged, almost out of control, and sweat fell profusely 
off his forehead, blinding his furiously blinking eyes. 

	A phone call.
 
	It was just a phone call, and it had caused him to run so hard 
that the cold air was now wheezing painfully through his lungs, 
causing billows of white to be emitted from his mouth. Forty-five 
minutes ago, he had dialed a painfully familiar number, knowing from 
the beginning that the call was already doomed to failure. He had 
listened to Scully say "hello" three times before she fell silent, 
eventually eliciting a sigh because only one person called her at one 
forty five in the morning. Biting his lip, feeling the words of 
despair start to well inside of him, he was the first to hastily hang 
up - throwing the offending object against the wall.

	Like the snow that had fallen this morning - picked up and 
tossed by the sixty kilometers per hour winds - the rumors had started 
to come out in frenzy. Mouths covered by hands, gossiping lips 
cleverly hidden behind coffee mugs spoke of the Caps' chances at the 
Cup, Andrew Winters' drinking - the new, surly Assistant Director.  But 
the dominating topic of the FBI's version of locker talk was Walter 
Skinner's predicament. There was no one within the J. Edgar Hoover 
building that didn't know the prosecution was going to go full bore 
for the death penalty. And with the defense running in circles, with 
the FBI labs coming up empty, the whispers and the hushed tones were 
growing in frequency.

	Shaking his head to himself, trying to dispel such emotionally 
exhausting thoughts, Mulder walked through the designated trails, the 
run park silent, save for the occasional car horn from the distant 
freeway. Two thirty in the morning and all was far from good. The park 
was empty - the weather had even chased the panhandlers and garbage 
scavengers away. Illuminated only by lamps, Mulder was painfully aware 
that he was the only living entity trudging through the quarter inch 
of snow. 

	He'd lost so much and alienated so many people since he began 
working for the Consortium... and yet, he gained no new understanding, 
no new truth. And he wondered if maybe his tactics were faulty from 
the start.

	Walking slowly to his apartment, feeling the muscle cramps 
ease and the bite of frosty air lessen, he mentally counted the days 
left to Skinner's trial, deciding that the date was a deadline. That 
on that day, something was going to break. And he knew that the game 
was still very much in his control, and he could still decide who won.

	In this roulette of chance, the house could still win on a 
double zero. 

	Or they could lose.

	A few hours later, he stood in the room in Manhattan, casually 
drinking coffee and waiting for someone to appear. After all these 
months, he still didn't know the habits or schedules of the Consortium 
members. Just another link in his chain of mistakes. 

	"Fox! You're early today. It's a beautiful morning in New 
York," Milton was suddenly standing beside him, and Mulder tore his 
gaze away from the breathtaking view on the sleepless city.

	"I do love this city," he smiled in return. "Even if I'd never 
want to live here."

	For a moment, they stood side by side in comfortable silence. 
"What brings you here?"

	Mulder stepped away from the window, pulled a children's book 
from the briefcase. He steadied his hands, feeling the nerves inside 
of him start to shake.  The game could still be won, he reminded 
himself, and he laid out his cards, adopting his best poker face. 
"You know, Milton, it's upsetting to realize that you knew my father 
better than I did," he leafed through the pages, scanning the colorful 
pictures for the hundredth time. "I believe this is what you need."

	Milton accepted the book wondrously and felt his heart rate 
speed up as his eyes fell on the formulas. "So the letter was only a 
decoy."

	Mulder nodded his affirmation, feeling sweat slide down his 
back.  "What are they?"

	"A way to combine human and alien DNA's," Milton explained, 
satisfied expression plastered all over his face. "We were successful 
in creating the clones - but it's an entirely different matter to take 
a living human being and inject them with alien DNA."

	Mulder shook his head, a bit mystified. "I thought that it had 
been successful."

	Milton laughed. "You know, Michael Kritschgau did tell you 
some true things. You might have seen what you thought were successful 
experiments - but in fact, there are always too many health risks, too 
many combinations of genes possible for it to be this easy. No," he 
patted Mulder's shoulder with familiarity. "This is priceless, and 
we're in your debt."

	Mulder stood up and paced the room in a tight circle. He had 
to get the damn book back -- the Ace of spades lay within pages 
fifteen to twenty-five, and he knew his gamble was dangerous.  "I'm 
glad to help, James," he spoke sincerely. "But I'd appreciate it if 
I could get a book back, after you're done with it. After all," he 
paused, offering a sardonic smile, "it is for my children."

	"Sure. We'll just make photocopies," Milton replied 
good-naturedly. "Did you enjoy your trip to Vermont?"

	"I wish I could say that, but my sister isn't exactly the girl 
she used to be. And my nephew is terribly ill."  Mulder studied the 
floor, lowering his voice.  Use, and be used, he chanted inwardly, 
hoping to get something from the Consortium, cherish a minor victory, 
before following through with the rest of his plan. Before
completely alienating his partner.  "He's had a fever for a 
month, it's putting a strain on his heart, he can't keep anything 
down..."

	Milton listened to Mulder's exhausted sigh and weighed his 
options. "You know, Fox... I cannot possibly repair your relationship 
with Samantha. But as far as little Tommy goes, I'm sure something 
could be done."

	"Milton... thank you," Mulder spoke softly, signing a mental 
thumbs-up. "I'm touched."

	The elder waved the grateful words away impatiently. "There 
is still time before the colonization date," he shared thoughtfully. 
"Even if the resistance doesn't work, you are among the few chosen who 
will retain a privileged position in the new society. But for now, we 
should all enjoy the world as we know it."

	"Are these formulas one of the ways to resistance?" Mulder 
asked, an empty space inside his chest growing with every minute. 

	"Your father must have been non-too-happy with the success of 
his own project," Milton smirked. "If all else fails, these formulas 
are the way to change people into something different. Humanity would 
be destroyed... but only half-way."

	"If humans are aliens, there is no way to eradicate them, is 
that it?" Mulder summarized. "This is not a pleasant resolution."

	Milton eyed him uneasily, the masks dropped for once. "We are 
working on alternate methods."

	Mulder put down the coffee cup. "I have to go - too much work 
to do, and I would like to go back to Vermont the day after tomorrow."

	"Fox," Milton called after him. "If you're not happy with your 
duties at the facility, you don't have to continue."

	It was at that precise moment that Mulder knew that this round 
of the game was his, unbeknownst to his opponent. "No, James. I really 
don't mind."

	"Will you be back in time for Skinner's trial?"

	For the first time, Mulder's knowing, cruel smile was a 
reflection of Milton's.

	"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

* * *

	Mulder tapped on the lens of the video camera impatiently, 
casting the occasional glance over his shoulder to make sure there 
were no eager eyes watching.

	"Langly?  Frohike?  Open the door."

	Half a dozen dead bolts clicked open, and Mulder stepped in 
hastily, wanting to get out of the open porch of the Lone Gunmen.  
Something under his foot creaked, and he stopped in his tracks, seeing 
the boxes and Styrofoam popcorn littering the floor.

	"And you wonder why people believe that bachelors are messy."

	The glare off of Langly's glasses hid the Gunman's eyes as he 
spoke.  "Geez, Mulder, you have a sixth sense when it comes to 
timing."

	Mulder passed a quizzical glance in Langly's direction, trying 
to sidestep the obstacles in his path.  "What do you mean?"

	"This!"  Frohike announced proudly, gesturing towards a 
blinking, metal monstrosity in the corner of the office.  "It's the 
newest CIA masterpiece.  She utilizes polarized filters, lasers, and 
can analyze data with something as simple as infra-red technology, to 
something as complex as electron microscopy."

	Mulder shook his head.  "And in layman's terms that means?"

	Frohike smiled.  "A top notch photograph analyzer.  Maybe 
twenty years down the road from what you feebs have."

	"Really?"  Mulder couldn't help but challenge.

	Byers cleared his throat, in an effort to remind the remaining 
Gunmen of the more important issues at hand.  "It allows us depth 
perception, to a point.  Extrapolation of data."

	"Basically, it's the photographic equivalent of the TV 
analyzer we used when chickadee Scully was being zapped by those TV 
tubes," Frohike interjected.

	Mulder stared blankly at Byers.  "Okay, so why is this 
important to me?"

	Langly picked up a photograph from the workbench in front of 
him and shook it in his view.  "Your picture, I presume?"  

	Mulder passed a quick glance at the dead body of Cancerman and 
the halfback figure of Walter Skinner.  "Geez, I forgot that I gave it 
to you," he muttered.  At the Gunmen's silence, he waved a hand 
encouragingly.  "Okay... yeah... I remember... go on."

	"We checked for abnormalities, as you wanted.  Didn't get 
anything off of our regular filters, but when we ran it through Big 
Bertha here, this baby is what we got."  Frohike rummaged through some 
folders in front of him and produced an oddly colored piece of paper.

	Mulder gazed at it carefully, absorbing the dark horizontal 
blob on the bottom of the paper, and the lighter vertical blob to the 
right.  He shrugged his shoulders.  "And I'm looking at...?"

	Byers walked over, taking the photo from Mulder's hand, and 
placing it directly on top of the printout.  "See, how the colored 
masses correspond to the placement of the bodies?"

        He nodded.

	"So, this horizontal mass is the dead guy, and this vertical 
mass is the shooter," Byers continued.

	"Okay..."

	"You see the dead guy?  The spot on the printout is dark.  The 
frequency corresponds to a wavelength of 780 nanometers.  This is the 
extrapolation and depth perception we were talking about."

	Mulder nodded, acknowledging that he understood so far.  

	"780 nanometers corresponds to the color of red."  Byers 
paused a beat.  "Blood."

	Realization dawned and Mulder pointed to the lighter vertical 
mass.  "So then what about this one?"

	Frohike wagged an eyebrow.  "That, my friend, corresponds to a 
wavelength of approximately 550 nanometers.  Which is the wavelength 
for--"

	"--green," Mulder finished breathlessly.

	The Gunmen nodded simultaneously.

	"You wanted your proof, Mulder.  You got it."

	Mulder shook his head, a genuine smile on his lips untainted 
with cynicism or mockery.  "I have to hand it to you, boys.  You 
surpassed yourselves again."

	The Gunmen smiled crazily at each other, unused to the 
compliment.

	"But," Mulder continued.  "I can't use it."

	Frohike's face fell.  "Why not?"

	"When I gave you the picture, I was..." he struggled for the 
right words.  "I was in a position to do something.  But I'm not in 
that position anymore."

	Langly pushed his glasses up.  "This is about your promotion 
and Scully."

	"It's about a political gamble gone askew," Mulder corrected 
testily.

	"Then what do you want us to do with this stuff?"

	Mulder turned towards Byers, smiling mirthlessly.  "That's 
why I came here in the first place."  He licked his lips nervously 
before continuing.  "There's some stuff, including this photo and that 
printout, that I want you to forward to Scully, after I send it to 
you."

	Frohike nodded.

	"They *have* to get to Scully," Mulder re-emphasized. "Just 
tell her not to use them before the trial."

	The three gunmen nodded while glancing at each other, 
disconcerted. "Why can't you give them to her yourself?" Langly 
finally breached the silence.

	Mulder ignored the question, instead rubbing his temples with 
his fingers, his feet seemingly stuck to the cheaply tiled floor of 
the office.  

	"Where are you disappearing to?" Byers ventured carefully, 
abandoning the previous line of inquisition.

	Mulder crossed his arms in front of his chest, shrugging his 
shoulders.  "I have some matters that need to be taken care of." There 
was silence, as he continued to rub his temples -- as the Gunmen 
fidgeted with the metal gadgets closest to them.

	A soft voice broke through the oppression.  "Can I borrow your 
videotapes while you're gone?"
	
	Mulder offered a self-deprecating smile as Frohike's attempt 
to lighten the mood was only partly successful.  "Go ahead, whack 
yourself silly."

	Frohike offered a chuckle, trying to maintain the camaraderie.  
"So, this trip, Mulder -- is it business... or pleasure?"  The Gunman 
followed the last word with a leer.

	Mulder smiled, excited about seeing both Tommy and Meg again, 
realizing suddenly that Samantha had become a secondary interest in 
the equation. He turned towards Frohike, returning the photo and the 
printout.  "Just... family matters. I met some cute new relatives." 

	Frohike accepted the papers with raised eyebrows, noticing how
Mulder's hand stayed in contact with his longer than was necessary, 
his light words not deceiving him as to the seriousness of the 
situation.

	A hoarse bark of laughter escaped his throat as he approached 
the door to leave.  "At the risk of sounding like a cheesy B-grade 
spy movie, I appreciate all the digging you've done for me.  I won't 
be seeing much of you guys in the next few days, and I just..." Mulder 
let his words trail off, the testosterone in the office prohibiting 
any more emotional sentiments.  

	Frohike stepped forward, worry etched on his face. "Mulder, if 
we don't hear anything from you..."

	Mulder shook his head.  "You'll hear from me.  Or about me.  
Whichever way, I promise," he offered cryptically, before walking out 
the door.

* * *

 	"The cause of death: knife wounds in the stomach and in the 
chest, which damaged several major organs, including lungs, and 
caused a fatal blood loss. The body was discovered approximately 
fifteen hours after death..." Scully stopped typing, shaking her tired 
fingers. It just never ends, she thought distractedly. How did they 
ever manage without a forensic expert in the department before?

	She jumped at the phone ring, then picked it up with a sigh, 
imagining it to be yet another request from one of the VCS agents for 
on-the-spot analysis of yet another corpse.

	"Agent Scully? This is Edward Jackson, remember me?"

	"Of course, sheriff," she tried to match the cheerful tone, 
only to come to the conclusion that she should have taken drama 
classes in school instead of something as useless as physics. "I was 
going to call you."

	Liar.

	"Oh, good. I just wanted to check how the investigation was 
going. Did you find something out?"

	Yes, I did, Sheriff. The two bodies you've discovered were 
used as lab rats in the attempt to change a human into an alien. "No," 
her nails dug hard into her palm. "There is nothing unusual about the 
bodies. I'm sorry."

	For a few moments, there was only shocked, mistrustful silence 
on the other end of the line. "That is impossible, Agent Scully. I've 
seen them myself, and those bodies were not... usual," Jackson's tone 
was careful but firm.

	Too many lies. There were just too many lies, and who was she 
serving by perpetuating them? "Sheriff, what you saw was a result of 
decomposition. Now, I must apologize, but I have very little time..." 
Scully finished breathlessly.
	
        The Sheriff sounded disappointed. "Well, goodbye, in that 
case. Sorry for disturbing you."

	Receiver back in the cradle, Scully looked at the screen of 
her laptop blankly, then slammed it down. The machine beeped jarringly 
in protest. She has just deceived yet another honest man. She glanced 
at the calendar fearfully, noting how Skinner's trial was closer by 
yet another day. 

	Resignedly, she pulled the stack of photographs and a 
magnifying glass out of the drawer. As many times as Andrew, Mulder, 
and herself had studied the pictures, the only thing that became 
abundantly clear was the topnotch quality of the film and the skill 
of the photographer. Cancerman was smiling as he shook hands with 
Skinner, and Scully studied the expression on his face with curiosity. 
	
	Their silhouettes reflected in the polished windows of the 
apartment building. Her fingers trembled suddenly and she used the 
other hand to steady the disobedient wrist. A car, with a license 
plate number, was visible in one of the windows, and she tried to 
imagine how this picture would look like had it been taken from the 
inside of it.

	Scully clamped her mouth tightly to stop from laughing 
hysterically out loud. There was no reason to jump for joy yet. 
T4ZYE5, she typed hurriedly into the database. The computer hummed, 
finally spitting out the name of Erran Drake.

	Scully looked back to the report, flipping through hastily 
scrawled interview statements, carbon copies of receipts, and poorly 
photocopied documents.  Andrew had beat her to the punch, noting in 
big, block, capital letters that T4ZYE5 did indeed belong to Erran
Drake, who, upon closer investigation, was dead. Time of death: two 
days after Cancerman's. That looked promising, but there was nothing - 
absolutely nothing else to be found about him. Her fingers fluttered 
nervously over the keyboard as her frustration grew in direct 
proportion. Finally, she slammed her fist down on the table, feeling 
the sharp recoil of pain. No matter how careless they might have been, 
there was no way to prove that Erran Drake was the one to take the 
picture - and even if he did, it still did not absolve Skinner from 
murder.

	Her phone rang again, and she considered unplugging it - 
finally picked it up with disgust. "Scully."

	"Agent Scully, I was hoping to find you." Frohike's voice was 
at its most charming. "We've missed you since your last visit."

	"Frohike," she smiled and threw another look at the computer 
screen. "Just the man I need at the moment."

	The little gnome sounded pleased. "Really? To what do I owe 
such favor?"

	"I need you to check something for me. Erran Drake, car 
license T4ZYE5, deceased. Any information at all."

	"I'm wounded. You never need us for anything but information," 
he sighed melodramatically. "So what are you looking for, exactly?"

	"I'll know when I see it," she admitted honestly.

	"Well, it just so happens that we have something interesting 
to give you," Frohike informed her solemnly. "We'll be waiting, and 
by the time you get here, Langly will dig something up about the guy." 
He hung up the phone before she had a chance to ask anymore questions. 
Scully glanced guiltily at the reports, knowing that there would be no 
more work accomplished today for the VCS. With a sigh, she stood up 
and corrected her suit, bracing herself for the perfunctory 
conversation with Douglas.

	"Sir," she opened the door of his office after his impatient 
"come in" and tried to produce a smile. "I need to leave for the rest 
of the day."

	"Why, Agent Scully? Is it another request from upstairs?" 
Douglas didn't raise his eyes from the papers on the table. 

	She bit her lip. It was nearly impossible to talk to the man 
after the Manns Harbor non-case. "No. It's... personal."

	His expression didn't change. "Oh yes, I forgot. Assistant 
Director Mulder is on vacation, so he wouldn't be handing you any 
cases in the meantime."

	The words resonated dully inside her skull, and she listened 
to their dying echo numbly. A vacation. Now, of all times. "May I go?" 
she questioned quietly, and Douglas waved her off resignedly. 

	The drive was a blur, and only when parked in front of The 
Lone Gunmen's office was Scully finally aware of the tension 
accumulated in her shoulders, of the tight lines around her mouth 
reflected in the video monitor. And yet, she found herself returning 
Frohike's smile. Oh, but it was good to be among... friends. Her throat 
constricted suddenly and she couldn't offer a greeting.

	"We'll need a handsome reward for what we're about to share 
with you," Byers informed her, deadpan.

	"We ask for your immortal soul," Langly confirmed, fighting 
back a grin.

	"And a kiss?" Frohike ventured hopefully.

	She stared at Frohike, who batted his eyes innocently.  "A 
kiss. Right."  As the Gunman continued to stare, she waved her hand, 
exasperated.  "Okay, okay, whatever you want.  Do tell. You must have 
found undeniable proof that JFK was abducted by aliens and it was his 
clone who got shot instead."

	"That's a good one," Langly chuckled appreciatively.

	"But here is something better," Byers gestured toward the pile 
of papers. "Proof that unless your ex-boss has green blood, he is not 
a murderer."

	Scully's eyes brightened as she listened to his explanation of 
the photoanalysis. When he finished, she sighed in satisfaction. "This 
is so out there, but..."

	"But it just might work." Frohike finished. "Reasonable doubt, 
Agent Scully, is all the jury will need.  Now, about Erran Drake - 
and I know you will love what you hear..."

	"But first, who is this guy?" Langly asked curiously. 

	"He may be the person who took these pictures," Scully 
explained impatiently. "Now, I'm all ears."

	"His death was... an unfortunate accident. He fell under a 
train in the subway," Langly's voice suggested that he didn't believe 
for a single moment in the accidental classification of the 
occurrence. "His bank account was frozen since his death, but we were 
able to filter out numerous and rather generous deposits from - say 
it with me..."

	"Rousch," the chorus of four voices completed the sentence.

	The feeling of triumvirate dissipated only too soon, and 
Scully collected the printouts carefully. "This is wonderful, but 
very circumstantial."

	Frohike raised a warning finger. "Never despair, Agent Scully. 
Here is an advice from someone who studied law. Reasonable doubt is 
the defense attorney's best friend.  And sometimes," he lowered his 
voice in a mock whisper.  "Sometimes the best way to win a difficult 
case is to turn the jury's attention onto something more interesting."

	"Something larger than the case, just make sure that it's all 
connected," Byers confirmed. "And this just might be it," he pushed 
the stack of papers and folders in her direction.

	Scully accepted it curiously, settling down in the quickly 
offered chair. "Oh my God," she whispered under her breath. "Where... 
where did you get this?"

	"An old friend," Frohike murmured as she raised her hand to 
the forehead, shadowing her eyes so that he couldn't read her 
expression. The three Gunmen exchanged a bemused look.

	"Did you read this?"

	Langly shrugged uncomfortably. "We couldn't help it - most of 
it came by fax."

	"From what little we saw, we couldn't understand what it was," 
Byers offered apologetically. "So consider us just as ignorant as we 
were before seeing it."

	Small things. Meaningless if taken apart. As destructive as a 
nuclear bomb if taken together. An address on top of one page and a 
schedule of lab technicians. The list of women missing over the past 
several months, the dates of their abductions and returns correlated 
with the schedule of the "subjects" brought to the facility. Requests 
for supplies and technology signed and approved by the name that 
appeared in yet another list of several dozen names. A Manhattan 
address.

	Finally, Scully came to the two manila envelopes and raised 
her eyes questioningly. "They came in the mail," Frohike explained. 
"We haven't opened them up. There is also this box."

	Scully accepted the small carton, opening it impatiently, 
seeing the tissue and liquid samples, knowing she would have to spend 
several days in the lab with the chemists and biologists, poring over 
each and arguing over the results. And, she reminded herself, there 
were still two interesting bodies stashed in the little-known corner 
of the FBI morgue. 

        It was difficult to put this box aside, but there were still 
envelopes to go through. She tore the first one, pulling out a thin 
buff-colored folder, labeled Vernon John Fulsom. VJ. She tossed it 
aside in annoyance, ripping the second envelope and revealing another 
similar folder, only thicker. A yellow post-it was pasted over the 
label; "stay impersonal" typed in capital accurate letters. Fully 
expecting to see her own name under it, she tore off the note. Sheila 
Maria Freeman.

	She clenched her fists. Stay impersonal, her ass.

	The bastard.

	Scully leafed through the pages briskly, scanning the 
paragraphs and photos with a wildly beating heart. There were names 
here as well, signatures of the doctors. And the light dimmed in the 
room as she read the entry on the last page, as she recognized the 
expansive stroke of the familiar handwriting. Darkly, she thought 
that she'd never wanted to believe in the truth that Mulder told her. 
The Gunmen jumped to pick up the papers fluttering to the ground as 
they spilled from the clumsy, shaking fingers. "I can't. I can't use 
this," Scully looked at Frohike with a plea.

        He sat down near her gingerly. "I don't understand. What is 
it?"

	It is the end, she wanted to scream. It's the means to 
destroying Them, but it's the means destroying Mulder at the same 
time. It was a choice she couldn't make. "Where is he?" she couldn't 
bring herself to pronounce the name out loud.

	Frohike shrunk back at the bitterness and rage in her voice. 
"He mentioned something about cute new relatives?"

        Scully stared at him without comprehension. Byers extended 
her the folder, and she made no move to accept it.

        "I refuse to make this choice. It will destroy him," the words 
were spoken low, even as the raw anguish made her insides churn 
painfully. It figured that she would break down here, in the presence 
of Mulder's friends who, unknowingly, were giving her the means to his 
demise. 

        Frohike touched her hand gently, still in the dark as to the 
larger picture, but beginning to understand Scully's reaction. 
"Somehow, I know that I will regret this advice," he spoke hesitantly. 
"But it seems to me that if Mulder gave it to you - whatever this 'it' 
is, then he trusts you with it.  He's freed you from making the choice 
by making it for you."

        She closed her eyes tightly, praying for the strength that she 
didn't have. "But it wasn't his choice to make," she whispered hotly. 
"We were supposed to be in this together," she reminisced softly. 
"I made him promise... no more ditching..." Of course she would have 
no choice in the matter. He would take it from her as well. 

        Frohike looked at her solemnly, speaking softly.  "Isn't it 
Mulder you should be telling this to?"

        Scully had a very good hunch that she would have a hard time 
finding him before the trial, and her affirmative nod was reluctant. 
Her fingers eventually squeezed Frohike's hand gently.  She suddenly 
leaned over, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

        The Gunman blinked, blushing furiously, while the other two 
grinned like fools -- passing wide-eyed, junior high looks between 
each other. 

        "You asked for it," Scully stood up and accepted the offered 
folder, gripping it firmly, then collected the rest of the papers. On 
the way out, she stopped. "You might as well have my immortal soul," 
she tried to inject a smile into her voice but the words still sounded 
broken and emotionless. 

        "Agent Scully?" Frohike called uncertainly and halted.

        She finished without turning around, "...because I don't 
think I'll be needing it any longer."

* * *

        Mulder popped open the trunk of his rental car, but before he 
could drop the shoulder bag inside, he was suddenly entangled in two 
laughing children. "What are you trying to do, guys, stop me from 
leaving?" he encircled his arms around both of them tightly, reluctant 
to let go. 

	A flash of light blinded him momentarily, and he looked up to 
see Samantha with a Polaroid camera in her hands and a guilty 
expression on her face. "I thought you might want to have a picture."

	Mulder gripped the kids harder to himself. "I'll miss you very 
much."

	"Me or the kids?" Sam asked gently.

	He didn't want to answer honestly, though several days in 
Vermont with Meg and a healthy Tommy took his mind off his ever 
persistent, and ever omniscient, demons. Not just phantoms of his 
imagination anymore, his mind fully registered that his nephew 
and niece had now taken priority over his sister. 

	He turned towards her, offering a smile - knowing the void
that had plagued his heart since a cold, clear night in Chilmark 
was now diminishing.  "Take care, Sam."

	She frowned, detecting a strange note in his voice. "You 
sound as if you are seeing us for the last time."

	Mulder fell silent, contemplating a very uncertain, and 
probably a very unhappy future. He hoped that he would be able to see 
them again, knowing that he would miss them in ways he never imagined 
possible. In fact, he couldn't be sure the future even existed. 
Tomorrow was the beginning of Skinner's trial, and up until Scully's 
testimony, he would sit in his fifth-floor office and go on with 
business as usual, contrary to the very insistent voice of 
self-preservation. Giving Scully the file of Sheila Freeman was only a 
gesture - and she had to recognize it as such. Mulder knew perfectly 
well that there were too many other things that would bring him down 
anyway.

	And after Scully's testimony, he would try to leave the 
country. He still had to decide where he wanted to go or what he 
wanted to do. The notion was comical, in some perverted, tragic way, 
and he chuckled lightly. All in all, for a man who would soon be 
wanted by the state and by the Consortium, he felt remarkably serene 
and composed. All in all, the resolution to the plan gone severely 
wrong didn't seem too awful.

	"How did you do it?" his sister pointed to Tommy discreetly. 
"I had to take him to the ER, and the next day... he was fine. The 
doctors still have no idea what happened."

	"I'm not sure what you mean."

	She sighed, her disbelief apparent. "Fine. We will just call 
it magic."

	He grinned. "You really should believe in miracles."

	"They are in love with you, Fox," Sam spoke sadly. "Rob is 
hardly ever home, and even when he is, he never plays with them. I 
think... he is afraid of them. I don't know of anyone who isn't, 
frankly, except for you."

	"And you."

	The picture was ready, and Samantha watched with a growing 
smile as it floated toward her brother who accepted it in stride, 
accustomed to objects in this house moving seemingly of their own 
volition. "I can remember enough from before... to know that I wasn't 
born with this ability, Fox. But I'm not blind, I know that it's not 
normal, and I've learned to hide it. For the children, it's natural."

        Mulder stared at the photo, hardly recognizing the relaxed, 
casually dressed man as himself, two kids bearing remarkable 
resemblance to him in his arms. Peculiarly, it was a picture of 
normalcy - happiness - that he had for no more than two days. He 
freed himself from the kids, words of good-byes falling from his 
lips unwillingly, and kissed his sister on the cheek. "You have to 
come back here, if only for them," Sam whispered in his ear. Sitting 
down in the car and turning keys in ignition, he threw her a 
mischievous smile. 

        "Let's just say I'll be here if another miracle happens."

* * *

	The District Attorney measured the jury with a piercing look, 
preparing to make a statement. Skinner watched the man with interest, 
recognizing a worthy adversary. He realized that to most people in the 
room, including the DA, the case was clear-cut. The evidence seemed to 
be unquestionable. The time of the crime could not be established due 
to the lack of the body, thus any alibis and witnesses he provided 
would be pointless. The inherent desire of the crowd to see the 
government bureaucracy exposed as corrupt played against him as well.

	The room was full of FBI agents, reporters, and the simply 
curious. The walls were lined with the TV cameras. Today, the 
interesting part would begin. The case seemed to drag until now - it 
took more than two days to choose a jury, and Skinner had to respect 
the tenacity of his lawyer - though it was obvious that even she 
didn't believe in his innocence.

	"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury! Today, we will provide 
irrefutable evidence that will prove that this man, Walter Sergei 
Skinner, had murdered Henry Davidson in cold blood. We will also 
prove that it was premeditated..."

	A nudge in the elbow distracted Skinner from the carefully 
rehearsed speech. His lawyer was showing him a small note and he read 
it quickly, disbelieving his eyes. 

	"PLEASE REQUEST A RECESS. MUST SPEAK WITH YOU - NEW EVIDENCE 
COULD EXONERATE YOUR CLIENT. DANA SCULLY."

	Skinner turned around, scanning the courtroom, but he failed 
to spot the small figure of his agent. With a stony expression, he 
scribbled on the notepad quickly: "Ignore this."

	Clearly annoyed, she picked up the pen. "That is impossible, 
Mr. Skinner. If she says that she has evidence, I need to see it - 
before I present my case to the jury."

	Skinner glared at her angrily but didn't bother replying. 

	"Your jury, counsel."

	"I request a thirty-minute recess, your honor," Ellen Lehmer 
didn't think long about it.

	"Fifteen minutes. The court is in recess," the judge granted 
emotionlessly.

	Skinner glanced at his watch as his lawyer disappeared. 
Fifteen minutes would be over quickly, and then the games would 
continue. When all was said and done, he very much wanted for all of 
this to be over - no matter what the outcome. 

* * * 

	Milton stared at the TV screen, watching the navy blue suited 
lawyers file out slowly.  	

        Something was wrong.

        The elder turned to the other around him.  "Something's 
happened."  He shook his head, watching a red-haired federal agent 
lean over the railing to talk to the defense attorney.  "Something 
is very, very wrong."  He leaned in towards the TV, trying to judge 
the facial expression of the defense attorney, and her client, Walter 
Skinner.  "Where's Mulder?" he asked absently.

        "Either at the office or on his way here," someone in the 
background replied.

        An arm with gold cuff links peeking through the Armani suit 
offered Milton another glass of bourbon, and the elder pushed it away 
angrily.  "No more drinks.  No more talk.  I want to hear what Miss 
Scully has to say."  He paused, his mouth forming a grim line, 
suspicion rearing its ugly head.  "And I want to be ready."

	***

	"The defense calls Special Agent Doctor Dana Scully," Lehmer 
proclaimed, and Skinner watched as a very calm Scully approached the 
witness stand and raised her right hand to swear that she would speak 
the truth, and only the truth so help her God.

	"Dr. Scully, how long have you known Mr. Skinner?"

	"Over four years," Scully smiled for his benefit. "He was my 
Assistant Director during that time."

	"How would you describe your experience while working for 
him?"

	"He was never an easy man to get along with, and we had our 
share of conflicts and disagreements during these four years, but I 
learned to respect him. I know that he is an honest man and I believe 
that he is not a killer. In fact, I have undeniable proof that the 
pictures you've all seen today are fake."

	The courtroom stirred, and the judge pounded his gavel, 
trying to restore silence and order. Skinner felt a growing unease, 
a certainty that he had missed something important in his earlier 
judgement of Scully and Mulder. This new piece of the puzzle, the 
favorable testimony, did not fit into the picture. But he couldn't 
have possibly been wrong before, unless...

	Skinner massaged the bridge of his nose, struggling to 
concentrate on the task at hand while flashing on the possible 
scenarios in the back of his mind, discarding them one after another. 
His logic failed him - but he reminded himself that Mulder was hardly 
a man ruled by cold reason. To understand him, one needed to stop 
thinking logically, and he tried to do just that.

	Meanwhile, Lehmer, unperturbed, addressed her witness again. 
"How is that possible? Only today we listened to the testimony of 
Agent Scott from the Special Photography unit and he proved that the 
pictures were more than real."

	"The pictures are, indeed, real. But the person holding the 
gun is not Walter Skinner. Using a special photographic analyzer, one 
can see that whoever it is..." Scully tried to stifle a deep sigh of 
resignation, knowing how it would sound to everyone's ears, "is not 
human."

	The rumble of noise grew exponentially, and even the judge's 
continuous cries for order were ignored. He stared at the woman on the 
witness stand who seemed to grow even quieter amidst the chaos she 
created, then at the lawyer. "Counsel, I think you had better explain 
what it is you're trying to accomplish here, and present me with this 
evidence."

	"With pleasure, your honor. Permission to approach the bench?"

	As the two women conferred with the judge, the silence in the 
courtroom was tight as a spring. And Skinner knew that once it was 
released in motion, its power would be enough to knock out everyone 
in its way.

	* * *

 	Milton exchanged a long look with Northam before turning back 
to watch the televised trial that was turning out to be more 
entertaining than anyone might have originally thought it would be. 

	"Dr. Scully, are you suggesting that Mr. Skinner was framed 
for this murder? But by whom and with what possible purpose?"

	Milton watched hatefully as Scully prepared to reply to the 
District Attorney. Bloody hell. They should have gotten rid of that 
bitch a long time ago. The trouble was, she really seemed to have nine 
lives. 

	"I have a strong suspicion that the pictures in question were 
taken by a man named Erran Drake, now deceased, but who was employed 
by the certain organization that was proven to have been involved in 
other... shady businesses. Mr. Skinner, no longer useful to this 
organization as an Assistant Director of the FBI, was framed for 
murder."

	Milton held onto the glass of bourbon in his hand, willing it 
not to shake, not to betray his fear. How could she possibly know 
about Erran Drake?

	"You're not implying that this organization has the power to 
juggle positions within the FBI."

	"That's exactly what I am implying."

	The DA paused, seemingly processing this information, deciding 
that the next question could not hurt his case more - but curious to 
know the answer. "That would have to mean that both the Director of 
the FBI and the Assistant Director who replaced Skinner are involved, 
as well. Are they?"

	Scully was silent, clearly unprepared for the question, 
visibly shaken.

	The judge turned to look at her, expectation written in his 
features. "Dr. Scully, please answer the question."

	"Yes, they are."

	Milton paid them no attention, his mind already engaged in the 
strategic handling of this disaster. He was convinced that Scully 
would not be uttering such allegations had she not had some 
substantial evidence to back them up. And the only person who could 
have possibly helped her was being crushed in the process of this 
testimony.

	"We have a leak," Northam announced in his wheezy voice, and 
Milton peered at him in annoyance. 

	"You think?" he stood up abruptly, ignoring the stares of 
other Consortium members, some accusatory, some frightened, and 
reached for the phone. "Miller? Have you spoken with Mulder today?"

	"No," the doctor sounded surprised. "Why, are you looking for 
him?"

	On a sixth sense, Milton restrained the positive reply. "No, 
I was just hoping to speak to him if he was around. Nothing 
important."

	"I will see him tomorrow - but I am sure you will find him if 
you call the Bureau," Miller offered helpfully.

	"Goodbye then," Milton hung up. It seemed that minutes had 
passed before he was able to face the room and address them calmly. 
"Gentlemen, we have made a grave mistake. One for which I am largely 
to blame. But we must deal with the consequences calmly and rationally,
and find the guilty parties later. First order of business. Find Fox 
Mulder and bring him to the D.C. facility. He is currently in the 
Bureau Headquarters, or on his way here, and I don't care whom you 
must involve to accomplish that task. Second and just as important: 
we must empty the facility right away. This includes everything and 
everyone. We don't have much time before it may be found. Third: we 
will have to find a different place to convene in the future. You 
will be informed of when and where the next meeting will transpire. 
Fourth: I would advise everyone, no matter what happens, not to 
compound the situation by turning state's evidence."

	Northam listened to the speech with visible approval, nodding 
at the end. "I hope everyone will remember that it's much easier to 
deal with the police and FBI than with your own colleagues."

	After the thinly veiled threat, the conversation and liquor 
didn't flow as easily. 

        "What about her?" some young man pointed to the TV, and Milton 
flashed him an impenetrable look. 

        "Too visible," he sighed audibly. "Too visible."

	Milton's thoughts turned back to the redhead's ex-partner, and 
he shook his head.  "Son of a bitch," he muttered, wondering how such 
a catastrophe hadn't been detected sooner.  He stalked out of the 
room, stilted steps eventually leading him to a vault.

	Working the combination dial deftly, the door opened on its 
hinges silently.  Milton grabbed the nearest .38, loading it with one 
fluid motion, a sense of urgency fueling his actions.

	The D.C. facility and a traitor named Fox Mulder were waiting 
for him.

* * *

        Mulder clicked off the TV and glanced at his watch. 4:35 PM, 
and Scully's testimony was obviously over. That should be sufficient. 
He closed his father's storybook, feeling frustration threaten to 
overwhelm him again.  Bits and pieces of clues -- scattered dates, 
assorted numbers, and random names -- and Mulder still couldn't find 
the bigger picture that he knew his father wanted him so desperately 
to see.  

	January 4th, 1970.  October 22nd, 1974.  December 6th, 1976.  
A sequence of letters that spelled out "Great Falls" if you counted 
every fifth letter, the same sequence spelling a confusing string of 
nucleotide bases for every three letters.  Two characters of the story 
had their names in bold on one page, Cora the Giraffe and Thomas the 
Rhino -- a small detail that was still driving Mulder crazy.  He 
looked at the book critically, knowing that there was still enough 
evidence to exonerate Skinner, and implicate the Consortium. Still...

	With a sigh, he collected the coat and stepped out of the 
office without a backward glance. 

	"Kim, did I ever thank you for putting up with me?" he put on 
his best charming expression.

	His secretary looked up with surprise. "No, sir, but it's my 
job - and my pleasure."

	"Could you see that this book gets to Agent Scully as early as 
possible tomorrow morning?" he held out "The Eleventh Hour," yellow 
post-its and pieces of paper sticking out of it visibly. "It's an 
important piece of evidence," he explained at her bemused expression.

	"Of course, sir. Don't forget, you have a board of directors 
meeting at 10 AM," Kim reminded him.

	Mulder nodded absently, thinking about another parting gift 
waiting for Scully at his apartment - her file, placed prominently on 
his computer keyboard. He would fail miserably as a Santa Claus. 
With a sigh, he began playing with a little Porsche sitting in his 
hand. "Walter Skinner is a great man to work for. Don't you miss him?"

	She seemed momentarily taken aback and didn't offer a reply. 

	"See you later, Kim," Mulder put on the coat, flashed her a 
quick grin. "The trial's going well, from what I can see."

	Once in the elevator, he hesitated before pushing the 
button - finally choosing the parking level, trailing a finger lightly 
over the first floor button from whence a staircase would lead him 
to the basement. There was nothing and no one in the X-Files office, 
anyway.

	Mulder picked out the key as he walked to his car. The door 
opened smoothly and he slid behind the wheel, taking a moment to 
search through the papers lying on the passenger seat before starting 
the engine. He struggled only briefly as the nauseating sweetness of 
chloroform pushed against his mouth and nose, closing his eyes, 
plunging his mind into heavy, overwhelming darkness.

	The man in the backseat took Mulder's arm and searched for a 
vein with the ease of a professional, using a syringe to plunge 
another portion of the drug into his system. He stepped out of the 
car, surveyed the unconscious form slumped against the wheel, and 
looked around inconspicuously. It was still early by the Bureau 
standards, and there was no one else in the parking lot. Opening 
the trunk of the Lincoln Towncar standing right next to it, he 
dragged the unresponsive body inside it quickly, then closed the 
door with a heavy thud.

	The nearby videocamera continued to provide a steady picture 
of rows of cars and no disturbances.
	
	* * *

	"Do you have anymore questions, counsel?" the judge turned 
to Skinner's lawyer.

	"No questions, your honor."
	
	"Are there any other witnesses?"

	"No."

	The judge glanced at the jury. "It is 4:40 PM, ladies and 
gentlemen. We will finish this tomorrow. Dr. Scully, counsels, step 
in my office, please. The court is adjourned."

	He led them into a small room, inviting them to take seats 
in the heavy leather chairs around the table. "Counsels, I sincerely 
wish that we had all known about this beforehand. Perhaps, this trial 
need not have happened."

	"You're not suggesting that you believe in this 'inhuman' 
killer theory," the DA glanced at the judge darkly.

	The judge didn't reply, turning instead to face Skinner's 
lawyer. "Next time you want to turn any trial into the "Close 
Encounters of the Third Kind," please inform me. My courtroom is not 
a circus."

	"Your honor, I am the one who held onto this evidence until 
now," Scully entered the conversation. "This is no one's fault but 
mine."

	The judge sighed audibly. "Counsels, I will see you tomorrow. 
Let us try to wrap this trial quickly. Dr. Scully, I need to speak 
with you in private."

	The DA shook his head in numb frustration and walked out of 
the office, throwing a disgusted "you win" to Ellen Lehmer on the 
way. The woman offered a smug expression in return, visibly pleased.

        "Dr. Scully," the judge spoke when they were alone. "You're 
using my courtroom and this trial to bring something else to light. 
I know that this case and your testimony in favor of Walter Skinner 
are only your secondary purposes. May I ask what it is you're trying 
to accomplish - and why do you feel compelled to do it now?"

	"Sir, I hope that the evidence I presented so far is relevant 
to the case. I'm sure you would have stopped me if you thought 
otherwise. I'm sorry if I stepped outside of the boundaries," Scully 
paled visibly, trying to retain the semblance of calm. She didn't 
want to antagonize this man now. Quickly, she added, "I assure you 
that at the moment, Walter Skinner's freedom is my primary goal."

	The judge waved the explanation away. "From the bits and 
pieces you let slip during your testimony, I could tell that you knew 
more. I would like to see more evidence, Dr. Scully. Bring it here 
tomorrow and we will review it while the jury decides on a verdict."

	Scully swallowed nervously, knowing that this was too good to 
be true. "Sir, with all due respect, I wish we could review this 
evidence right now. It is here with me, and I have already waited 
too long to come forward with it."

	He sank down into his chair and sighed, eyeing the twilight 
outside. "This had better be good enough to miss my dinner," he 
growled non-threateningly. "Why did you wait, Dr. Scully?"

	She bent to look through the briefcase and pull out the 
appropriate documents. "The man who submitted this evidence was 
implicating and endangering himself by doing so. He assumed that 
I would not use it before the trial."

	A shower of auburn hair obscured her face, but the judge 
could swear that he heard the tears in her voice. Yet when she 
handed him the papers, her eyes were absolutely dry -- a figment of 
his imagination, maybe? "What is the name of this man?"

	"Fox Mulder. He used to be my partner."

	He nodded thoughtfully and opened up the first folder. "By 
the way, Dr. Scully, you shouldn't worry about tomorrow. No matter 
what the jury decides - I will dismiss this case due to the lack of 
evidence."

	The tightly controlled muscles in her face suddenly relaxed, 
and she smiled gratefully. "Thank you, your honor. Just... thank 
you," she eyed him inquisitively. "May I ask... why? The green blood 
rarely makes a convincing argument," Scully laughed mirthlessly.

	The judge didn't return the gesture, growing serious. 
"Personal experience, Dr. Scully," he offered cryptically.  He swept 
the room with an expansive gesture before issuing a mouthed, "the 
walls can hear".  

	Scully nodded numbly, unable to comprehend the judge's 
actions... until she saw the picture of Senator Matheson hung beside 
that of Janet Reno and Bill Clinton.  She was once again reminded of 
how many people had lives invested in the conspiracy, of how many 
events were fixed, rigged, and automatically doomed to failure or 
success.

	Walking out of the judge's chambers, with Skinner's 
exoneration all but guaranteed, with completed, damning evidence 
against the Consortium, Scully had never been so depressed. 
Reluctantly, she picked up a cellular phone and dialed a familiar 
number - knowing that Mulder should share in this triumph no matter 
what their relationship was like at the moment.

	When she received no answer after several tries, Scully 
felt angry and tired. In this, as in so many other things in the 
last few weeks, she would have to be alone.

* * *

	The voices floated inside a world covered by a heavy 
suffocating blanket.  "Dear Lord, how much of this crap did you give 
him? He's been out for hours."

	Oh yes, now he remembered the taste of chloroform in his 
mouth. How old-fashioned of them. Mulder's head seemed like a giant 
pulsing globe ready to burst from pain and pressure. How long was he 
unconscious? 

	"I think he has a nasty concussion," an unfamiliar voice 
responded.

	Milton grunted unhappily. "This is very inconvenient. We don't 
have much time."

	Experimentally, Mulder tried to open his eyes, but the light 
that penetrated between the slits of his eyelids made his head hurt 
even more. The stifled scream came out as a small moan.

	"Oh, Fox, you're coming around. Help him sit up," Milton's 
voice instructed someone. Mulder tried to raise his hands to support 
his head but realized too late that they were tied behind his back. 
Two rough hands pushed him up and against the wall, and the world 
went out of focus momentarily.

	"You have a concussion," Milton informed him coldly. "I'm 
afraid your head hasn't been treated too gently since we decided to 
arrange for this meeting. So try not to make any sudden movements."

	Mulder swallowed painfully, fighting a wave of nausea. 
"Water... please."

	Milton seemed to think about it, then nodded to the other 
man who stepped out of the room, came back with a paper cup. "Only 
so we can have this chat," he tersely explained, as water poured 
down Mulder's throat, spilling over his chin.

	"Thank you," he fell into silence, too exhausted to say 
anything else. 

	"So you decided to leave us, Fox?"

	"Couldn't... handle the pressure," Mulder's attempt at humor 
fell on deaf ears.

	"Why, Fox?" Milton sounded genuinely curious. "After 
everything... I imagine you might not care about money or career 
or even your life. But we gave you your sister. We healed her child. 
And even though I threatened Agent Scully... well, I was the one 
who'd warned her about the danger a few years back. She is too 
visible a figure for us to really get rid of her."

	"But I bet you pray for an unfortunate accident once in a 
while," Mulder croaked by the way of an answer. "I did it for all 
people who died while opposing you. I did it for all women whose 
lives you wrecked," he met Milton's steely glare. "I did it for 
myself."

	Milton sat down on the chair in front of him. "Does it hurt?" 
he pointed to Mulder's head.

	"Wouldn't you like to know."

	Milton ignored the hostile tone, speaking casually.  "I had 
my suspicions, you know. I was afraid that we made a mistake by 
trusting you. But do you realize just how difficult it is to find 
good people these days?"

	"Is that a rhetorical question?" Mulder asked sourly.

	"You had everything to lose by betraying us. And I hoped that 
you'd begin to like being here," Milton continued, a touch of 
disappointment in his voice. 

	Mulder laughed, a dry sound that sent him into a fit of 
coughing. A minute later, he leaned against the wall, his eyes 
closed. "I generally don't get off on power trips, Milton."

	"Henry Davidson used to be like you," Milton picked up the 
cup with water, put it to Mulder's lips. "Idealistic and foolish. 
But he understood very fast what he was supposed to do to survive. 
How important our work was and how to keep it in secrecy."

	Mulder winced, the physical and emotional pain slamming him 
simultaneously. "Everyone so loves to compare me with him," he cut 
each word, short and angry. "But there is a basic, and vital 
difference."

	Milton smiled, knowingly and victoriously. "You don't smoke?"

	"He said yes, and I said no," Mulder watched with satisfaction 
as the elder's smile faded. "If you want to know the reason behind 
my... betrayal... maybe I just didn't want to be like him."

	Milton nodded in understanding. The door opened, revealing the 
figure of Miller. "James, the building is almost empty. Are you about 
done here?"

	"Dr. Miller. Come in," Milton was all friendliness, pulling 
up a chair to welcome the new arrival. "I was just chatting with Fox, 
here. He was telling me why he submitted the discriminating evidence 
on us - and on himself."

	Miller regarded Mulder emotionlessly. "Himself?"

	"You have to... watch TV, Miller," Mulder grinned, fighting 
another wave of nausea. "Agent Scully testified against me today, 
just as I'd asked her to."

	"Fox, you do realize that you cannot possibly destroy us. 
We are prepared for unexpected. At most, you helped Skinner and made 
us discard a good facility. I imagine we might lose some people - 
some valuable, some not, but you cannot win this war alone."

	"And why did you fight, Fox?" Miller regarded his former 
colleague with clinical interest. "The work we are doing... it will 
help save the humanity when the inevitable happens. We are searching 
for ways to protect people against aliens."

	Mulder shook his head.  Again, the doctor's response was 
mechanical, sounding like it had been rehearsed, memorized to the 
point that it became automatic.  "But your methods are unacceptable."

	"War is war, Fox," Milton offered.

	"I realized something," Mulder shifted against the wall, 
trying to arrive at a comfortable position, failing miserably. 
"Sometimes, one cannot save something as huge and encompassing as 
humanity. Sometimes, it's best to just remain human and save a few 
people that you love."

	"And if everyone of us did that, wouldn't this planet be a 
'happier place?'" Milton drawled cynically, and Mulder glanced 
at him sharply. "What does it take to say no when someone offers 
you the world: stupidity or nobility?" 

        Mulder's face adopted the haughty expression of someone who 
already owned the world. Milton received no answer.

	The elder walked out the door for a moment, then returned with 
a satisfied, grim expression. "You are rather brave, Fox. You cannot 
possibly expect to live after this conversation - and look at you. 
You are calm as a quiet pond."

	Mulder suppressed a shiver along with thoughts of an 
impending death. "It's from the concussion," he murmured softly. 
"Maybe chloroform affects those instincts of self-preservation."

	Milton was clearly disinterested as he glanced at his watch. 
"You know what to do," he spoke to the man hovering in the background. 
"Goodbye, Fox."

	Miller came to stand with Milton by the door, just as another 
man entered the room and handcuffed Mulder's hands to the wall. The 
first blow landed on his ribs, and he cried out in pain. He didn't 
have a chance to catch his breath as a second blow knocked him down. 
Oxygen was hot lava piercing his lungs, and the world around him was 
set on fire.

	"Goodbye, Fox," he heard Miller's voice through the roar of 
dull noise in his ears. When the dizziness came and brought with it 
another wave of nausea, Mulder didn't resist it. 

	The sole of someone's shoe connected with his head and the 
darkness consumed him once again.

* * *

        Milton walked with Miller down to his office. The doctor was 
unusually pale, and he winced visibly at a few agonized cries that 
echoed from the room where they left Mulder.

        "You don't seem very surprised at this turn of events, 
Miller," Milton sat down in the unoffered chair and smiled.

        "Neither do you," Miller turned away, started putting some 
files and books into the prepared cardboard box.

        "I'm not a very emotional sort of person," Milton replied out 
of context. "Really... but even I am saddened that we must get rid of 
Mulder. I came to like the boy."

        Silence was his answer.

        "I thought you had... grown attached to him, as well."

        Miller shrugged, made his voice sound light. "He was only 
someone I worked with. No special feelings."

        "I see. Let's cut this crap, Miller, and get to the chase. 
You knew that Mulder wasn't with us, didn't you? You had to have 
some suspicion that possessed you to go to the Bureau parking lot 
and check up on the bastard.  And you did not inform us," Milton's 
voice was perfectly controlled, as if he was merely commenting on 
today's weather or the quality of freshly brewed tea.

        "How could I possibly know that?" Miller looked surprised. 
"And besides, nothing happened at the parking lot."  He tried to 
busy himself with collecting his things but his hands shook too much.

        "You are a psychologist extraordinaire. And you liked Mulder. 
Maybe not from the first time you met him but you did grow to 
appreciate him."

        Miller sat down heavily, jumbled thoughts and images whirling 
in his mind. Mulder... sometimes he thought of him as a son he'd lost. 
Sometimes it was just heartening to see the younger man's smile after 
hours of work that he still detested even if he'd never admitted it.

        And sometimes, he identified with Fox Mulder to the point of 
tears.

        It was pathetic, really. What exactly did he think would 
happen? That he and Mulder would continue working together like the 
couple of buddies that they weren't?

        Seconds slithered by, and Milton stood up, pulling out a 
revolver.  "You still haven't said no, you traitor," Milton held the 
revolver against Miller's head.

        "I didn't say yes, either," he squeezed through gritted teeth. 
"But what do you care?  Destroy everyone, as long as you don't destroy 
yourself, isn't that right, James?"

        "Did Fox relate to you this joke I told him? It's one of the 
new rules for our facilities. Burn it to the ground if you know it 
will be found."

        "Sounds like a good time to follow the rules, then," he 
whispered hotly.

        "You believe in the rules?  Do you still believe in us?" 
Milton asked, staring at Miller intently.

        The doctor closed his eyes -- the answer was brutally obvious 
when the barrel of a semi-automatic was pointed at his head.  "Yes, 
James.  My loyalty to the Consortium is still intact."  

        Milton smiled, handing Miller another pistol from his belt.  
He nodded to the video screen in Miller's office that was 
emotionlessly recording Fox Mulder's beating.  

        "Prove it."

* * *

	His ribs had to be cracked.  Or maybe broken.  Too many parts 
of his body were singing in pain, and his head alternated between 
periods of sledgehammer-worthy torture, and coherent
thought-destroying numbness.

	Footsteps echoed from the hallway outside, and Mulder was 
quickly learning to fear the sound.  His eyes widened when both 
Miller and Milton approached -- the elder looking smug, the doctor 
looking increasingly uncomfortable. 

	"Do it now," Milton ordered sharply.  "Or you can say 'hi' to 
Thomas."

	Mulder watched the exchange, hearing the name ring a bell -- 
knowing that it was important to Miller when he saw the doctor wince.

	"Don't bring my son into this equation," he retorted sharply.  

	"Your son," Mulder echoed dumbly, frustrated with the time it 
was taking for his thoughts to form.  "Your son," he whispered again, 
his brow furrowing in concentration.  He looked to Miller, his voice 
coming out softly.  "Was your wife's name Cora?"

	Both Consortium members regarded Mulder suspiciously, but 
Miller nodded.     

	Something clicked within Mulder -- the gears in his brain 
started processing faster and the epiphany was earth shattering.

	"Your son's name was Thomas?" Mulder asked again breathlessly.

	Miller nodded, and Mulder's eyes widened.  "Don't shoot me, 
Miller.  It's Milton I would shoot."

	"Why?"

	"Because, they killed him."  

        Miller hesitated and Milton looked shocked. "What on Earth..."

	"Your son's name was Thomas.  Your wife's name was Cora." 
The pieces were falling into place and Mulder could barely keep up. 
"Your son!"  he shouted, paying no attention to the pain it brought to 
his lungs, "Your son was born January 4th, 1970.  Your wife and the 
company she had been working for at that time, Rousch, abducted him 
when she had custody, October 22nd, 1974.  And then he died December 
6th, 1976."  Inside, his mind flipped through the pages of the book, 
offering numbers, dates, and words -- the solution that had eluded him 
for the longest time, only now thundering into place.  "They used 
hybrid DNA.  The same DNA that was found in Scully, that's still in 
Scully.  The same DNA that they are trying to mold into humans." He 
closed his eyes, trying to recall the specific genetic sequence, the 
scientific term Scully had used seemingly eons ago.  "C-T-G-G.  A 
mutational hot spot."  Mulder shook his head, words spilling out of 
his mouth.  "Your son died.  Christ, Miller, why do you think he got 
cancer in the first place?"

	Miller's gun wavered but didn't lower, and Mulder pressed on. 
"Your son, it was the case study that my father gave me.  Little 
hints.  Little numbers and places and names.  Great Falls, Montana... 
that's where he was, wasn't it?  They killed him, Miller.  And they 
guilted you into staying."

	Milton shook his head.  "The ramblings of a dead man," he 
scoffed.  "For God's sakes, Anthony.  You're the psychologist!  You 
should know a mind game when you see it."

	"I know way too much to be just playing mind games, Miller. 
Think about it."

	"Have I ever deceived you in more than twenty years that we 
have known each other?"

	"He's been deceiving you from the beginning, Miller.  He's 
used your guilt to leash you to the Project. And my father helped 
him," Miller still looked mistrustful. "Look who you're talking to, 
Miller!" Mulder shouted.  "I can recognize a cleverly disguised 
guilt trip when I see it!"

	Milton looked to the doctor, talking nonsense words about 
loyalty, taking off the safety of the .38 behind his back.  "Think 
about your work, Anthony.  Our larger goals. Kill Mulder now, or I'll 
kill both of you myself."

	Miller backed up a few steps, raising the gun in his hands 
slightly.  Mulder watched the scene in front of him with strange 
detachment, as his field of vision often became obscured by red as 
blood dripped from his brow.  He blinked, blinding himself 
momentarily.  A shot echoed in the red, and Mulder jumped, grunting 
at the pain, feeling the restraints bite into his skin.

	Lifeless, wide pale eyes stared up in horror and surprise, 
as a solitary body fell onto the facility floor.

***

	A man clad in black finished pouring gasoline, tossing the 
empty canister aside and wiping sweat off his face. He didn't know 
why this building was being destroyed, nor did he care. He followed 
orders, he was being handsomely rewarded, and the rest never concerned
him.

	"Maybe we should check that everybody's out?" someone asked 
hesitantly. "Take a last look..."

	The man pondered dilemma only for a second. "If anyone is 
there, it's their own damn fault. Everyone important enough knows 
that 1:00 AM is the deadline," he glanced at his companions, seeing 
nothing but grim resolve on their faces. "It's 12:59."

	The match was lit, and the man accepted it respectfully, 
imagining how a small spark dancing in the wind would create a 
powerful flame, consuming everything in its way.

	"Ready, set, go," he chanted under breath and tossed the 
match at the fuel-soaked walls at precisely one hour after midnight.

* * *

	"Miller," Mulder whispered, reassuring himself that the 
bullet which sliced the air seconds earlier was sent from the doctor's 
gun and that it was Milton lying in a rapidly growing pool of blood. 
"I'm sorry."

	Miller dropped the gun and took a step backwards, seemingly 
mesmerized. "What are you sorry about?" he asked automatically.

	"Your son. This. Everything," Mulder wasn't sure what he was 
apologizing for, but the elder's shell-shocked silence was gnawing on 
him - frightening him more than the barrel of a gun directed at his 
head. "Do you want to untie me?"

	Miller flinched at the hesitant request, visibly returning to 
the reality, blinking his eyes as if he just woke up. On some level, 
he supposed that he did wake up - after having been asleep for more 
than twenty years. "Hold on, Fox. I'll have to find the keys to 
handcuffs," he moved uncertainly to Milton's body, intending to search 
his pockets.

	"Check my coat," Mulder rasped. "Mine should fit."

	Miller nodded, picking up the black article discarded in the 
corner. A few seconds later, the key slipped into the lock smoothly, 
the bonds were off, and Mulder exhaled as the blood circulated easier 
through his throbbing wrists. "Thank you," he managed to offer.

	"Can you stand?" Miller asked him, concern entering his voice 
for the first time this evening.

	"I'll try," Mulder didn't believe in his own words, certain 
that his bones and muscles would betray him. Miller was offering him 
a hand, and he gripped it tightly, grateful for the support.
"You knew that I would betray the Consortium and you didn't 
tell them," he stated quietly. "Why?"

	Miller pulled him to a full height, half-supporting the 
younger man's frame with his own. "Later, later, Fox. I will explain 
everything once we're safely buckled up in my car."

	"Oh shit," Mulder winced, clutching at his chest for breath, 
and Miller leaned him against the wall, trying to assess his state as 
best he could with a quick examination. Ribs were obviously broken, 
and the beating compounded the concussion, but the legs were 
relatively intact, and Miller offered a silent prayer of thanks for 
the small miracles. 

	"Fox, we don't have much time," he spoke urgently, hoping that 
Mulder was still stable enough to fully understand him. "The building 
will go up in flames at any moment, and we have to get out of here."

	Walking meant dizziness, nausea, and expending what little 
energy he had left, and Mulder decided that he really wasn't up to 
it. Still, just because it was easier than arguing, he nodded 
agreement with eyes closed. "Okay." 

	"Come on, Fox, you have to start walking," Miller tugged his 
hand noting that there was still no sign of movement from his 
companion. "I'm really too old to carry you," he half-joked, 
half-lamented.

	Mulder inhaled deeply, immediately regretting the gesture. 
Small, shallow intakes of air, he reminded himself. Using all of his 
powers of concentration, he tried to forget the aching body, the 
constricted breathing, and the pounding in his skull. And he made the 
first step.

	"Wonderful," Miller smiled encouragingly. "Now, let's keep 
moving. Hold on to me, to the walls, but please, keep moving."

	Mulder obeyed, Miller's sense of urgency keeping him on his 
feet contrary to all of his expectations. "It's hot here," he 
complained softly, too engrossed in the simple function of walking to 
fully understand the meaning of his own words. 

	Miller didn't reply, only pushing him harder towards the 
narrow staircase. "Just three flights, Fox. Then you can rest. I'm 
right behind you."

	Mulder flashed an apologetic look at the doctor's tired face 
and gripped the railing, struggling to remain standing despite a 
particularly bad spasm of pain. "Just give me a minute."

	Miller shook his head stubbornly, trying not to pay attention 
to Mulder's ashen pallor and the sound of teeth grinding, knowing that 
the compassion would undo them even faster. "No. No minutes, no 
seconds. God dammit, keep walking!"

	Mulder's eyes flew open at the loud voice, and he began his 
descent downstairs. They both came to a halting stop upon reaching the 
second floor, contemplating in horror the fire already leaking towards 
the steps, coming at them from the hallway. Miller ran upstairs, only 
to return in seconds. "The fire is coming from above, as well. We have 
to go down."

	Mulder froze, and Miller shook him roughly. "This is really 
not as bad as it seems. We can still make it," he spoke gently, all 
the while wondering what was wrong with the young man.

	"Pyrophobia," he explained. "I'm still with you, Miller," 
Mulder promised, more for his own reassurance than for the doctor's.

	Miller, his worry intensifying exponentially, watched as 
Mulder took a few steps downstairs and swayed, almost falling face 
forward. "Not now, Fox," he caught him just barely. "Don't black out 
on me now. Please," Miller didn't notice when he started begging the 
younger man to wake up, aware only of the rapidly approaching fire 
and of the heavy smoke penetrating his nostrils. He briefly considered 
dragging him downstairs, then decided against it, afraid to cause more 
damage. "We'll get you home, and then you can have a normal bed to 
sleep in," there was still no sign of life from Mulder, and Miller 
continued rambling. "Think of your niece and nephew, Fox. And Agent 
Scully would be very upset if you died. I really don't want to explain 
myself to her after this."

	"What are you talking about, Miller," Mulder's voice held 
exasperation and an odd twinge of affection as his eyes swam back 
into focus and he tried to stand.

	Miller's face brightened, a genuine smile of relief 
illuminating his features. "Let's go, Sleeping Beauty."

	Mulder walked once again, berating himself for moving too 
slowly, painfully aware that Miller would have already been safely 
out of the building were it not for him. "Why don't you get the hell 
out of here," he shouted without turning around.

	"Keep walking," Miller barked at him gruffly. "We've had 
enough of your heroic measures for one day."

	Mulder wondered detachedly since when did Miller begin to 
sound like a military commandant, and disturbingly like Walter 
Skinner, but it sure as hell had the desired effect on him. Just a 
few more steps - and the door, though licked by fire, was still 
reachable.

	The resounding crash that came from behind him nailed him to 
the spot, and he turned around abruptly, almost falling in the 
process. The entire staircase was awash in flames, and he couldn't 
see the old doctor. The rush of adrenaline brought by panic was the 
only thing that still kept him standing. "Miller!" he screamed, 
lunging back in the flames, finally realizing that the landing from 
above must have fallen on him. "Oh God, no," he pleaded as air sizzled 
around him and he knew, with a crystal clarity of desperation, that 
it was too late to go back.  That there was only one way open to him 
now, and that he would be walking out of this building alone.

	Stumbling backwards, Mulder leaned against the door, paying 
little attention to the scorching temperature of the metal handle, 
his eyes closed so as not to see the funereal pyre of a... friend.

	He made himself walk a considerable distance away from the 
building, the visions of his comfortable couch, Miller's concerned 
eyes, and Scully's gentle hands, everything he would never see again, 
alternating in his mind. When he reached the nearby park, and let the 
night air clear his lungs, Mulder knew that he could finally - 
mercifully - rest.

	Yet, he sat for a long time, oblivious to the tears streaming 
from his eyes, watching the orange flame, hotter than sun itself, 
reach out lovingly to the navy-blue sky.

	***

	Scully stared at the smoldering remains through the car window 
and closed her eyes dejectedly.  "We're too late," she whispered. 
"It's all gone."

	Skinner glanced at her from the passenger seat, remaining 
silent.  Finally free from prison's bars, thrown back into the 
conspiracy's fray, he felt an enormous sense of resignation.  Did it 
matter if he was an Assistant Director, a prisoner, a spectator?  
Que sera, sera -- and the actions of everyone were inconsequential, 
weren't worth a damn as long as the penthouse on West 46th kept 
humming.  

	Scully had reluctantly shown him the information she had been 
given, never offering to bring Mulder into the equation.  He turned 
away from the scene unfolding in front of the windshield, his mouth 
becoming a grim line.  It was easy to hate Mulder -- but Skinner 
knew how desperation could fuel a man.  He could see it in Scully's 
eyes right now, and he wondered how much of Mulder's insanity was in 
her current quest for the truth.  

	He could still hear the hiss of the dying fire, the smell of 
charred rubble.  So reminiscent of a post-napalm, outback Vietnamese 
town -- Skinner briefly wondered if this war with the Consortium 
would also be a losing one.

	"Well, well, well..." he heard Scully remark beside him.

	He followed her gaze, not comprehending what exactly she was 
thinking.  He watched Director Robinson's still silhouette, the red 
wash of emergency lights casting an eerie hue to his rotund figure.  

	"What's wrong?"

	"It's Robinson," she whispered.  "He's one of them."

	Skinner looked at her doubtfully.  "Scully, I've worked with 
the man..."

	"You don't understand," her voice shook with anger. "He was 
responsible for the death of Agent Winters.  Winters went to him with 
information of Mulder's," the word came harshly through her teeth, 
"...duplicity."

	Skinner shook his head.  "Blevins was dirty; we took out all 
the moles in the FBI."  His voice hardened, the parting shot leaving 
his mouth before he could stop it.  "Well, with the exception of 
Mul..."

	"You have to believe me," she whispered intensely.  It was 
a peculiar role reversal - never would Scully have believed that she 
would speak with the same desperation as Mulder, meet the same 
disbelieving stare that she had so often given him in the past. She 
started for the car door, but a hand on her shoulder halted her 
progress.

	"Maybe we should wait," Skinner said.  "See what he does."

	Scully pulled free from his grasp.  "That's all I've been 
doing: sitting and watching.  I've already waited too long."

	He watched her receding figure momentarily before stepping 
out of the Taurus' closed comfort and approaching the smoldering 
ruins.

	Scully walked briskly to Director Robinson, ignoring the 
rubble crushed under her feet, the hot waves quickly bringing a flush 
to her cheeks.

	"I've been waiting for you."

	Scully closed her mouth, the words she was about to say 
disappearing.  "What do you mean?"

	The elder made no move for a few seconds, enough time for 
Skinner to join Scully's side. "Ah, Walter.  So nice of you to join 
us." The frown on Skinner's face grew more pronounced as Robinson 
walked casually through the ruins, his voice eerily calm. "I was 
happy to hear of your acquittal," he continued nonchalantly. "Nice 
to see that the American system of trial by peers is working.  Of 
course," he threw him a knowing glance. "I'm sure the fact that Judge 
Gibbons is a Matheson sympathizer had nothing to do with it."

	Scully eyed Robinson malevolently, trailing his footsteps 
by a few feet. He pointed towards the burned remnants of a skeleton. 
"James Milton. You can tell, because that lump of melted gold is his 
watch." The Director continued to move through the rubble, passing 
near what used to be a doorway.  "Anthony Miller. Your ex-partner was 
a dangerous man to befriend."

	"Director Robinson," she started, trying to ignore his 
statements.

	"No," his tone turned abrupt. "You listen, Agent Scully. And 
you listen good."  He pointed a finger in her direction.  "I don't 
say anything until you get me full protection. Full anonymity. Not 
this Witness Protection bull shit."

	Scully backed up, her eyes showing her incomprehension. "I... 
I don't understand. Are you confessing?"

	Robinson looked around him, suspiciously eyeing the 
firefighters and M.E.'s circulating through the scene. "Humans are 
fallible. Working in law enforcement this is made especially clear. 
Power mongering. Dog eat dog. Trying to form a consensus on how to 
save human nature. No one is immune." He shook his head while 
gesturing towards Milton's corpse. "But he prevented it -- he kept 
the common goal in sight.  And I would rather die sponging off the 
government's money than bickering with old cronies."  He smiled at 
Scully and Skinner's blank expressions.  "The date is set, Agent 
Scully.  *They're* coming. And because of your interference, all of 
human kind will perish.  Mulder would have been able to tell you all 
of this."

	Something dropped in Scully's stomach, a bitter taste formed 
at the back of her throat at the Robinson's repeated usage of the 
past tense.  "What are you saying? Where is he?"

	"Nothing, Agent Scully," Robinson's smile grew larger - baring 
teeth. "You must overestimate my position in the Consortium to think I 
would know Mulder's whereabouts."

	Scully glared at him, knowing that he was trying to antagonize 
her, wisely deciding to switch the topic. "What about the FBI? Who are 
the other moles?"

	"You mean, except for Mulder?" Again, there was that smug look 
that served to remind her that he held the advantage. "No way."

	"I have evidence that speaks of your duplicity," Scully stared 
at him, hoping he wouldn't call her bluff.

	"Your evidence?" he mocked. "The odds and ends that Mulder 
compiled? The evidence that makes sense only to you?" Robinson shook 
his head. "You'll have enough to get past the pre-trial hearing, but 
it'll be obliterated during cross examination."

	Scully adopted an expressionless mask - Robinson's refusal 
not surprising. Questioning a law enforcement officer was like pulling 
teeth. They already knew the tricks of the trade, and she was ready 
with another, familiar tactic. "We have no reason to believe anything 
you're saying."

	Robinson chortled. "You mean you want a sign of faith? Fine..."

	As he talked, Scully and Skinner exchanged stupefied looks. 
It was silly to imagine that the double agents had a stereotypical 
appearance, but Scully would have liked to think that she had been 
immune. That Mulder's paranoia coupled with Skinner's concern would 
prevent her from exchanging valuable case information, prevent her 
from giving evidence to those agents that Robinson was easily naming. 
Agents she had come to admire in her time at the Bureau, all corrupt.

	"Agent Killarny from VCS..."

	"Dr. Hardisty from forensics.  I believe you co-presented a 
lecture with him, Agent Scully..."

	"Agents McNally and Scott from photo lab..."

	"Agents Sheppard and Rosslyn at Quantico..."
	
	"SAC Semko in New York, who I believed graduated from the 
Academy at the same time as you, Walter..."

	Scully concentrated on the ground beneath her feet, wondering 
how the FBI had managed to conduct normal investigations when 
Consortium hands had dirtied so much information.  It was something 
Mulder hadn't even mentioned, and she wondered resignedly how many 
others Robinson was unaware of.

	When his voice came back into focus, Robinson shook his head, 
feigning concern.  "Of course, I doubt any will show up for work. 
In fact, you probably won't hear from them again."

	Scully reached for the cell phone in her pocket.  "We'll see 
about that."  She dialed a familiar number, not sure if she was 
relieved or disappointed when Kim, rather than Mulder, answered the 
phone.  "Hi, this is Agent Scully.  I was wondering if you could call 
and find out the whereabouts of Agents Killarny, Hardisty, McNally, 
Sheppard, Semko, Scott, and Rosslyn."

	There was a lengthy pause before Kim answered.  "I can do 
that, Agent Scully, but have you heard from Agent Mulder since last 
night?"

	Warning bells rang in Scully's ears as she was reminded of 
Robinson's foreboding words.  "No, why?"

	"He left me a... document to give you, and left.  He was a 
bit... not himself when I talked to him.  When I arrived this morning, 
his car was already parked beside mine.  I thought that maybe he had 
come in early, but his briefcase and papers were still in the front 
seat..."

	"Did you call security?"  She interrupted harshly.

	"I did, and apparently, the videotape in the parking lot was 
tampered with.  It didn't record anything, just played in an endless 
loop."

	"I see," she whispered, feeling the time slow down as she 
watched Robinson's knowing expression, as her mind presented her with 
several possible scenarios and reasons why Mulder didn't answer the 
phone yesterday. "Open his car and let me know what you find inside." 

	"All right," Kim sounded uncertain and more than a little 
concerned now. "Agent Scully?  He had a letter of resignation on his 
desk.  I was trying to find his personal agenda," she hastily 
explained.  "It wasn't completed... but it was dated for tomorrow.  
Is there anything I can do?"

	"Just let me know what you find," Scully looked at Robinson 
while she disconnected the phone - realizing that he only pretended 
ignorance before. She stepped closer to her Director. "If you don't 
tell me where Mulder is right now, I will pick up the phone and invite 
one of the Consortium killers for hire to come and take you out, you 
pompous piece of shit. Now, talk!"

	"I didn't want to upset you," Robinson stepped back, raising 
his hands in a mocking surrender. "But Agent Scully, it was your 
courtroom antics that led to his downfall. Considering that he was 
the one that asked you to testify, he should have been prepared. And 
so should have you."

	You knew this was going to happen, her mind screamed. What 
else did you expect once you volunteered to take a witness stand? 
"What did you do to him?" she hissed maliciously.

	 "What penalty do we use to punish those guilty of treason, 
Agent Scully?"

	She swallowed, the lump in her throat growing bigger. 
"Death."

	"And tell me, Agent Scully," Robinson added with a ugly sneer, 
"why should the Consortium treat their traitors any differently?" 

	"You're lying," Scully shook her head, refusing to believe 
him. "Prove it."

	"I saw him brought to the D.C. facility, unconscious. He must 
have been taken in the FBI parking lot. Though I did not participate 
in the interrogation that must have ensued, judging by the people who 
went in the room - and judging by the sounds - I would say he was 
either dead or in no shape to leave the building when it went up in 
flames."

	Scully listened to the indifferent recitation as black 
waves passed in front of her eyes, and she suddenly felt Skinner's 
supporting hand on the small of her back. The smell of charcoal and 
gasoline was assailing her nostrils, the sight of Milton's skeleton, 
the stench of burnt flesh and singed hair nauseating. It was an awful 
way to go, more so considering how afraid Mulder was of fire. And a 
thousand of memories of her partner could not abolish the vivid images 
that Robinson planted in her mind.

	Well, she'd already said goodbye to Mulder, hadn't she?

	"Agent Scully, I'm surprised that you still care," Robinson 
smirked at her horrified silence. "After all Mulder had done? Would 
you like me to tell you what he'd been a part of since he joined our 
organization? Free of charge."

	"He never joined you," Scully whispered, her voice gradually 
gaining strength. "He was never one of you."

	Something close to sympathy flickered over Robinson's face. 
"You would be surprised."

	She bit her lip and staggered away blindly.

	Skinner watched her leave, then turned to face the Director, 
speaking his first words since leaving the car. "Poor Andrew Winters," 
he shook his head. "It seems you've killed the wrong agent. But rest 
assured, Robinson," a sick smile distended Skinner's features. "We'll 
make no mistakes. Agent Mulder may be dead, but his death will cost 
the Consortium dearly."

	Robinson looked bored. "Just get on the horn with the DA and 
get me my deal. I may have just confessed to being an accessory to 
murder, but anything I say, or anything that you have found from what 
I've said is inadmissible unless it accompanies my Miranda waiver," 
he held up his hands. "And it appears that I haven't signed it yet."

	"Not only do you betray your own colleagues, but you have the 
balls to ask for a deal." Skinner sneered, the testosterone building 
as both men squared off. "One false accusation, Robinson, and I'll 
let everyone in your holding cell know that you're a snitch." He 
leaned in close, whispering hotly. "And you *do* know what they do 
with snitches in prison, don't you, Director Robinson?"

	Shaken slightly, Robinson backed up a few steps.  "Careful, 
Walter. I am still your priceless informant, and I can give you an 
address of another facility that might still be intact," Robinson's 
expression faltered as Skinner pushed him to the car, almost shoved 
him inside.

	Scully's small frame was shaking, and Skinner put his hands 
on her shoulders gingerly, hoping to instill her with courage, 
knowing in advance that he would fail.

	"This is what we've been working for, isn't it?" she 
whispered in anguish. "Robinson gives us names. He points us to the 
physical evidence. This is the end - the possible victory - and 
Mulder should be here to see it."

	This was a happy ending without a hero to live happily ever 
after. "Scully, you mustn't give up hope. Mulder has surprised us 
before," Skinner spoke gently, loath to instill optimism, but suddenly 
unable to bear the alternative.

	She glanced over at the burnt ruins, turning away swiftly, 
putting a hand across her mouth to stifle a groan. "Sir, you must 
believe that Mulder did all that he could to help you. He never 
wanted to take your place."

	Skinner closed his eyes, the realization that Mulder 
literally sacrificed his life for him, among other things, unexpected 
and jarring. And he resented him for making this choice. As he 
resented him for thrusting him back into the job he didn't 
really want anymore. 

	And Skinner hated Mulder for not being here to put his arms 
around a small pale woman, because his own arms didn't have the same 
power to comfort her. But as Scully looked up, silently begging 
forgiveness for Mulder's actions and for her own, he smiled, drawing 
her closer.

	"I am still waiting to hear for an explanation of his own."

Epilogue

        "As I lower my sword and lay down my shield to gaze upon the 
battlefield around me, my soul aches more than my body, because I am 
alone. A conquering knight, I cannot celebrate my victory, for my 
defeat is far greater. 

        "I've sharpened the knife that severed the fragile bond of 
trust between us, and it is I alone who should grieve for its loss. 
I've split my very being in two, only to achieve my goals, but to 
also become incomplete. But if you erase the cruel words from your 
mind, if you forget the images of the last few months, you will 
remember me the way I had been.

        "With great humility, I surrender my weapons to you in hopes 
that you are just as strong without me as you have always been beside 
me. You are one of the few who have a heart to face up to the truth - 
and to prepare for the future. Learn from my mistakes, and if you can, 
forgive them.

        "The perseverance of life is astounding, and I will live - 
because it is always harder than dying.

        "This end is only the beginning.

        "We have won."

	Scully sat up straight in bed, her pulse racing, her senses 
on overdrive, fighting against the onslaught of reality - of 
awareness. He was here, an undeniable presence, an easy smile she 
hadn't seen in ages on the familiar face, and he spoke the words of 
assurance and apology, of hope and victory. 

	Of life.

	The room was empty, silent, save for a soft tapping of 
branches of trees on her window, an occasional rustle of sheets, and 
a steady rhythm of the alarm clock. Irrationally, she envied its 
stability, its impeccable equilibrium in this universe, recognizing 
her own imperfection and weakness.

        Her mother had asked her gingerly why she was blaming herself 
for Mulder's death and Scully choked on the negative answer. Because 
I should have been certain that he was safe and away before I 
testified in court. Because I should have pulled him out of the snake 
pit when I realized that he'd gone too deep. Because I couldn't help 
him.

        Because I should have never let him do it in the first place.

	Since his death, Scully felt like she was stumbling in the 
dark without any support or hope. Nothing was right, nothing held 
any meaning. Not the newly reopened X-Files division. Not the three 
additional agents that Skinner assigned to work under her charge. 
Not the second-floor spacious office filled with frustratingly ordered 
rows of files and boxes of evidence from Great Falls, Montana facility 
that Robinson directed them to. Even the "I Want To Believe" poster 
looked eerie, awash in spring sunlight streaming in from the street.

        And the only reason why she continued was her belief that she 
was doing the right thing, knowledge that there were few others 
qualified to do the work - as well as what she recognized as a 
misguided sense of vengeance for Winters and Mulder.
 
	Scully drew her knees to her chest, shivering in the cold 
air of the bedroom, huddling under a warm comforter. Slowly, 
reluctantly, she passed a hand over her eyes, trying to dispel a 
haunting vision, reminding herself that it was best to believe in 
the worst, to surrender to the painful truth. The guilt and grief 
were simply playing tricks with her mind.

	And yet, they couldn't find his body. And Mulder had been 
believed to be dead before - and she heard a similar message from 
him... and she couldn't be certain about what happened that night. 
The night when she could have still saved her partner, a man who 
sacrificed everything in the name of his ideals. No, she corrected 
herself: our ideals.

	A buff colored folder, still untouched, sat idly 
on her night stand. Someday, she vowed, she would get the
courage to read it. Sometime in the future she would be willing to
look for answers in its accurate little numbers and impassionate
analyses. For now, she would look at it, touch its covers almost
reverently, and think of the dead man who still invaded her dreams.

	"Do you believe in extreme possibilities, Agent Scully?" she 
heard a mocking voice echoing in the darkness, and she replied softly 
but firmly: "Yes, I do."

* * *

        Lucy switched from one radio station to the next with a 
feeling of utter resignation. Country or church bells were all the 
options she would get in the middle of nowhere, on a lonely stretch 
of I-95 Highway. It figured.

	When she saw a hitchhiker extending a hand, she hesitated 
only briefly before stopping, remembering all the cautionary tales. 
But she still had a long way to go, and she had to find a way to 
entertain herself. Besides, the guy was very attractive, even if 
he did look like he was run over by a train. Twice. And then patched 
up together rather haphazardly.

	"Hello. Thanks for stopping," he threw a backpack in the 
trunk, and stretched his long legs as he settled down in the front 
seat.

	"Thanks for the company," Lucy smiled, pulled back in the 
traffic lane. "Where are you heading?"

	The guy appeared to think for a moment, confusion and 
amusement alternating in his eyes. "I'm not sure," he admitted 
finally. "You?"

	"Jacksonville, Florida," Lucy shared. "You've got a ride to 
there - or anywhere along the way if you like."

	The man nodded gratefully, looked around. "May I?" he pointed 
to the newspaper lying behind him.

	Lucy nodded, watched as he winced while turning around - 
ground his teeth as if in pain. "Are you all right?" she asked, 
concerned.

	"Never better," the man was already looking through the 
newspaper. "It just takes awhile to recover from being tortured at 
the rack and burnt at the stake," he smirked, obviously delighted 
at her expression of genuine horror. "Made you wonder."

	She guffawed, embarrassed at falling for the joke, decided 
to switch the topic. "So who else resigned today?"

	"Huh?" curious eyes peered from behind the newspaper.

	"In the past week, several senators, two Supreme Court 
judges, the Director of the FBI, and so many other officials have 
resigned or were arrested, I started to wonder who was next," Lucy 
explained. "Have you been following the news?"

	"No, I've been out of the loop for a while," the hitchhiker 
continued reading. "Secretary General. Oh, and an Assistant Director 
of the FBI was found dead, but not before resigning," there was a 
trace of humor in his voice. "Burnout and stress are hard to handle. 
Could I keep this?"

	Lucy shrugged, watched as the man folded up the newspaper, 
stuffed it in his pocket. She could swear that she heard him say 
softly, "Way to go, girl," and saw a flash of sadness that disappeared 
as quickly as it came.

	They rode in silence, and she studied him surreptitiously. 
Despite the ruffled appearance and tired lines around the eyes, there 
was an unidentifiable grace about the man. He looked... relaxed, calm. 
It was not the forlorn calmness of a man rolling along with a tide, 
but a self-assured poise that could only be achieved through peace 
of mind.

	Lucy decided that she envied that. 

	"Are you going to Florida for a vacation?" the hitchhiker 
asked after a while.

        She shook her head. "No, I'm moving. Sold everything, wanted 
to start a whole new life. You too, I guess?"

	The man rubbed his forehead and didn't answer. The toy alien 
that Lucy kept on the rearview mirror seemingly entranced him. "That's 
my little brother's version of a good luck charm," she explained. "It 
reminds me of him."

	The huge smile that appeared on the hitchhiker's face in the 
next moment was dazzling, and Lucy was tempted to hold her breath. 
Still smiling, he turned to her and nodded.

	"A whole new life."

END

	
Author's Note: (Anna)

	Wow, I can't believe we are done. It's been six months, and 
it's been worth every single day. Well, first of all, I must mention 
my co-author who exasperated me, who argued with me, who questioned 
my ideas, who tortured me by supplying tiny little parts of a chapter 
before bringing it to the conclusion, who made this story into what 
it is, and who pushed me to write better. Maraschino, you are 
incredible, and I sincerely hope that we do it again sometime. 

	Huge gratitude to our wonderful and understanding beta-reader 
and editor extraordinaire, Seda. Thank you so much for your patience, 
for putting up with our slowness and an additional burden of dealing 
with two authors. This story would never have been complete without 
you. 

	Also, thank you to everyone who wrote us, asking for more, 
providing encouragement, and telling us that they enjoyed the story. 
Thank you to all wonderful authors who inspire me every day.

	One lesson that I learned in the process of writing Shield & 
Sword was this: Never Become A Spy. It's really not worth it, unless 
you are in the British Intelligence and your name is James Bond :-)

	Write us! Let us know what you thought. And let us know 
whether there could have been any other possible resolution to our 
plot. I'm genuinely curious if this could have come out happier than 
it did.


Author's Notes (Maraschino):

	If ever given the choice to co-author with Anna or myself, 
please -- if you value your mental health -- choose the former.  
Anna, thy name is patience to the nth degree.  You truly are a gifted 
writer (making me look up words in the dictionary on numerous 
occasions).  Thank you, thank you for stretching my imagination, 
for bearing with my lame-o excuses when it would take me two weeks 
to write a little section, and simply for listening to me when I had 
the overwhelming urges to vent.  

	Seda, thanks for your wonderful suggestions, for reminding us 
that not all readers can see into our sick, demented heads and 
understand what we didn't coherently put onto uh... paper.

	For those who wrote at the end of chapter sixteen, when the 
movie was looming over us, thank you for the encouragement and for 
keeping us on our toes when the last thing we wanted to do was think 
about the (and I quote) @%*%$#! Shield and freakin' Sword.

	Speaking of the movie, as Anna mentioned earlier in the story, 
we consider "Shield and Sword" our version of Season Five up to and 
including the movie.  We'd love to hear how we fared in comparison to 
CC's red-colored, top-secret, hush-hush, sixty million UST-fest.  

	It's been an adventure and half.  Feedback, criticism, and 
flames are all welcome -- thanks for reading  :)

maraschino@ibm.net; anna_otto@hotmail.com